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INTRODUCTION- 

It  is  possible  that,  among  my  readers,  there  may  be  a few 
not  unacquainted  with  an  old  book-shop,  existing  some  years 
since  in  the  neighborhood  of  Covent  Garden  ; I say  a few, 
for  certainly  there  was  little  enough  to  attract  the  many,  in 
those  precious  volumes  which  the  labor  of  a life  had  accumu- 
lated on  the  dusty  shelves  of  my  old  friend  D There 

were  to  be  found  no  popular  treatises,  no  entertaining  roman- 
^ ces,  no  histories,  no  travels,  no  “ Library  for  the  People,’^  no 
4“  Amusement  for  the  Million.”  But  there,  perhaps,  through- 
-out all  Europe,  the  curious  might  discover  the  most  notable 
^collection,  ever  amassed  by  an  enthusiast,  of  the  works  of 
(^'Alchemist,  Cabalist,  and  Astrologer.  The  owner  had  lavish- 
ed  a fortune  in  the  purchase  of  unsaleable  treasures.  But 

old  D did  not  desire  to  sell.  It  absolutely  went  to  his 

Jieart  when  a customer  entered  his  shop ; he  watched  the 
'movements  of  the  presumptuous  intruder  with  a vindictive 
^ glare,  he  fluttered  around  him  with  uneasy  vigilance  ; he 
^ '^frowned,  he  groaned,  when  profane  hands  dislodged  his  idols 
^ifom  t-beir  niches#  If  b were  one  of  the  favorite  sultanas  0I 


943466 


viii 


INTRODUCTION. 


his  wizard  harem  that  attracted  you,  and  the  price  named 
were  not  sufficiently  enormous,  he  would  not  unfrequently 
double  the  sum.  Demur,  and  in  brisk  delight  he  snatched 
the  venerable  charmer  from  your  hands  ; accede,  and  he  be- 
came the  picture  of  despair:  — Nor  unfrequently,  at  the  dead 
1 < 
of  night,  would  he  knock  at  your  door,  and  entreat  you  to  sell 

him  back,  at  your  ov/n  terms,  what  you  had  so  egregiously 
bought  at  his.  A believer  himself  in  his  Averroes  and  Para- 
celsus, he  was  as  loth  as  the  philosophers  he  studied  to  com- 
municate to  the  profane  the  learning  he  had  collected. 

It  so  chanced  that  some  years  ago,  in  my  younger  days, 
whether  of  authorship  or  life,  I felt  a desire  to  make  myself 
acquainted  with  the  true  origin  and  tenets  of  the  singular  sect 
known  by  the  name  of  Rosicrucians.  Dissatisfied  with  the 
scanty  and  superficial  accounts  to  be  found  in  the  works  usu- 
ally referred  to  on  the  subject,  it  struck  me  as  possible  that 
Mr.  D - ’s  collection,  which  was  rich,  not  only  in  black- 
letter,  but  In  manuscripts,  might  contain  some  more  accurate 
and  authentic  records  of  that  famous  brotherhood — written, 
who  knows  ? by  one  of  their  own  order,  and  confirming  by 
authority  and  detail  the  pretensions  to  wisdom  and  to  virtue 
which  Bringaret  had  arrogated  to  the  successors  of  the  Chal- 
dean and  Gymnosophist.  Accordingly  I repaired  to  what, 
doubtless,  I ought  to  be  ashamed  to  confess,  was  once  one  of 
my  favorite  haunts.  But  are  there  no  errors  and  no  fallacies, 
in  the  chronicles  of  our  own  day,  as  absurd  as  those  of  the 
alchemists  of  old  ? Our  very  newspapers  may  seem  to  our 
posterity  as  full  of  delusions  as  the  books  of  the  alchemists 
do  to  us ; — not  but  what  the  Press  is  the  air  we  breathe — and 
uncommonly  foggy  the  air  is  too  ! 

On  entering  the  shop,  I was  struck  by  to  venerable 


INTRODUCTION. 


IX 


appearance  of  a customer  whom  I had  never  seen  there 
before.  I was  struck  yet  more  by  the  respect  with  which  he 
was  treated  by  the  disdainful  collector.  “ Sir,”  cried  the  last, 
emphatically,  as  I was  turning  over  the  leaves  of  the  cata- 
logue— “ Sir,  you  are  the  only  man  I have  met  in  five-and 
forty  years  that  I have  spent  in  these  researches,  who  is 
worthy  to  be  my  customer.  How — where,  in  this  frivolous 
age,  could  you  have  acquired  a knowledge  so  profound  ? And 
this  august  fraternity,  whose  doctrines,  hinted  at  by  the 
earliest  philosophers,  are  still  a mystery  to  the  latest ; tell  me 
if  there  really  exists  upon  the  earth,  any  book,  any  manu- 
script, in  which  their  discoveries,  their  tenets,  are  to  be 

learned  ? ” 

At  the  words  “ august  fraternity,”  I need  scarcely  say  that 
my  attention  had  been  at  once  aroused,  and  I listened  eagerly 
for  the  stranger’s  reply, 

“ I do  not  think,”  said  the  old  gentleman,  “ that  the  mas- 
ters of  the  school  have  ever  consigned,  except  by  obscure 
hint  and  mystical  parable,  their  real  doctrines  to  the  world. 
And  I do  not  blame  them  for  their  discretion,” 

Here  he  paused,  and  seemed  about  to  retire,  when  I said, 
somewhat  abruptly,  to  the  collector,  I see  nothing,  Mr. 

D ^ in  this  catalogue,  which  relates  to  the  Rosicru 

dans ! ” 

“ The  Rosicrucians  ! ” repeated  the  old  gentleman,  and  in 
his  turn  he  surveyed  me  with  deliberate  surprise.  “ Who  but 
a Rosicrucian  could  explain  the  Rosicrucian  mysteries  ! And 
can  you  imagine  that  any  members  of  that  sect,  the  most 
jealous  of  all  secret  societies,  would  themselves  lift  the 
veil  that  hides  the  Isis  of  their  wisdom  from  the 
world  ? ” 


X 


INTRODUCTION. 


“ Aha  ! ” thought  I,  “ this,  then,  is  ‘ the  august  fraternity* 
of  which  you  spoke.  Heaven  be  praised  ! I certainly  have 
stumbled  on  one  of  the  brotherhood.” 

“ But  I said,  aloud,  “ if  not  in  books,  sir,  where  else  am.  I 
to  obtain  information  ? Nowadays  one  can  hazard  nothing  in 
print  wdthout  authority,  and  one  may  scarcely  quote  Shaks* 
peare  without  citing  chapter  and  verse.  This  is  the  age  of 
facts — the  age  of  facts,  sir.” 

“Well,”  said  the  old  gentleman,  with  a pleasant  smile, 
“ if  we  meet  again,  perhaps,  at  least,  I may  direct  your  re- 
searches to  the  proper  source  of  intelligence.”  And  with  that 
he  buttoned  his  great-coat,  whistled  to  his  dog,  and  de- 
parted. 

It  so  happened  that  I did  meet  again  with  the  old  gentlemen 

exactly  four  days  after  our  brief  conversation  in  Mr.  D ’s 

book-shop.  I was  riding  leisurely  towards  Highgate,  when, 
at  the  foot  of  its  classic  hill,  I recognized  the  stranger  ; he 
was  mounted  on  a black  pony,  and  before  him  trotted  his  dog, 
which  w^as  black  also. 

If  you  meet  the  man  w’hom  you  wish  to  know,  on  horse- 
back, at  the  commencement  of  a long  hill,  where,  unless  he 
has  borrowed  a friend’s  favorite  hack,  he  cannot,  in  decent 
humanity  to  the  brute  creation,  ride  away  from  you,  I ap- 
prehend that  it  is  your  own  fault  if  you  have  not  gone  far  in 
your  object  before  you  have  gained  the  top.  In  short,  so  well 
did  I succeed,  that  on  reaching  Highgate,  the  old  gentleman 
invited  me  to  rest  at  his  house,  which  was  a little  apart  from 

the  village ; and  an  excellent  house  it  was — small,  but  com- 
modious, with  a large  garden,  and  commanding  from  the 
windows  such  a prospect  as  Lucretius  would  recommend  to 


INTROD  UCTIOJSr. 


xt 


philosophers  : — the  spires  and  domes  of  London,  on  a clear 
day,  distinctly  visible  ; here  the  Retreat  of  the  Hermit,  and 
there  the  Mare  Magnum  of  the  world. 

The  walls  of  the  principal  rooms  were  embellished  with 
pictures  of  extraordinary  merit,  and  in  that  high  school  of 
art  which  is  so  little  understood  out  of  Italy.  I was  surprised 
to  learn  that  they  were  all  from  the  hand  of  the  owner.  My 
evident  admiration  pleased  my  new  friend,  and  led  to  talk 
upon  his  part,  which  showed  him  no  less  elevated  in  his  theo- 
ries of  art  than  an  adept  in  the  practice.  Without  fatiguing 
the  reader  with  irrelevant  criticism,  it  is  necessary,  perhaps, 
as  elucidating  much  of  the  design  and  character  of  the  work 
which  these  prefatory  pages  introduce,  that  I should  briefly 
observe,  that  he  insisted  as  much  upon  the  Connection  of  the 
Arts,  as  a distinguished  author  had  upon  that  of  the  Sciences ; 
that  he  held  that  in  all  works  of  imagination,  whether  ex- 
pressed by  words  or  by  colors,  the  artist  of  the  higher  schools 
must  make  the  broadest  distinction  between  the  Real  and  the 
True, — in  other  words,  between  the  imitation  of  actual  life, 
and  the  exaltation  of  Nature  into  the  Ideal. 

‘‘  The  one,”  said  he,  ‘‘  is  the  Dutch  School,  the  other  is  the 
Greek.”  • • 

“ Sir,”  said  I,  “ the  Dutch  is  the  most  in  fashion.” 

‘‘Yes,  in  painting,  perhaps,”  answered  my  host,  “but  in 
literature ” 

“ It  was  of  literature  I spoke.  Our  growing  poets  are  all 
.for  simplicity  and  Betty  Foy;  and  our  critics  hold  it  the  high- 
est praise  of  a work  of  an  imagination  to  say  that  its  charac- 
ters are  exact  to  common  life.  Even  in  sculpture ” 

“ In  sculpture  ! No — no  ! there  the  high  ideal  must  at  least 
be  essential  1 ” 


INTRO D UCTION 


xTi 

Pardon  me ; I fear  you  have  not  seen  Souter  Jonnny  ana 
Tam  O’Shanter.’’ 

“ Ah  ! ” said  the  old  gentleman,  shaking  his  head,  “ I live 
very  much  out  of  the  world,  I see.  I suppose  Shakspeare 
has  ceased  to  be  admired  ? ” 

“ On  the  contrary:  people  make  the  adoration  of  Shakspeare 
the  excuse  for  attacking  everybody  else.  But  then  our  critics 
have  discovered  that  Shakspeare  is  so  real 

“ Real ! The  poet  who  has  never  once  drawn  a character 
to  be  met  with  in  actual  life — who  has  never  once  descended 
to  a passion  that  is  false,  or  a personage  who  is  real ! ” 

I was  about  to  reply  very  severely  to  this  paradox,  when  I 
perceived  that  my  companion  was  growing  a little  out  of  tem- 
per. And  he  who  wishes  to  catch  a Rosicrucian,  must  take 
care  not  to  disturb  the  waters. — I thought  it  better,  therefore, 
to  turn  the  conversation. 

“ Revenons  h nos  moutofis,'^  said  I ; “ you  promised  to  en- 
lighten my  ignorance  as  to  the  Rosicrucians.” 

“ Well ! ” quoth  he,  rather  sternly,  “ but  for  what  purpose  ? 
Perhaps  you  desire  only  to  enter  the  temple  in  order  to  ridi- 
cule the  rites  ? 

“ What  do  you  take  me  for ! Surely,  were  I so  inclined, 
the  fate  of  the  Abb^  de  Villars  is  a sufficient  warning  to  all 
men  not  to  treat  idly  of  the  realms  of  the  Salamander  and 
the  Sylph.  Everybody  knows  how  mysteriously  that  ingen- 
ious personage  was  deprived  of  his  life,  in  revenge  for  the 
witty  mockeries  of  his  Comte  de  Gabalis” 

“ Salamander  and  Sylph  ! I see  that  you  fall  into  the  vul- 
gar error,  and  translate  literally  the  allegorical  language  of 
the  mystics.” 

With  that  the  old  gentleman  condescended  to  enter  into,  a 


INTROD  UCTIOJSr. 


xiii 

very  interesting,  and,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  a very  erudite  rela« 
tion,  of  the  tenets  of  the  Rosicrucians,  some  of  whom,  he 
asserted,  still  existed,  and  still  prosecuted,  in  august  secrecy, 
their  profound  researches  into  natural  science  and  occult  phi- 
losophy. 

“ But  this  fraternity,”  said  he,  “ however  respectable  and 
virtuous — ^virtuous  I say,  for  no  monastic  order  is  more  severe 
in  the  practise  of  moral  precepts,  or  more  ardent  in  Christian 
faith — this  fraternity  is  but  a branch  of  others  yet  more  trans' 
cendent  in  the  powers  they  have  obtained,  and  yet  more  illus- 
trious in  their  origin.  Are  you  acquainted  with  the  Plato- 
nists  ? ” 

‘‘  I have  occasionally  lost  my  way  in  their  labyrinth,”  said 
I.  “ Faith,  they  are  rather  difficult  gentleman  to  understand.” 

“ Yet  their  knottiest  problems  have  never  yet  been  pub- 
lished. Their  sublimest  works  are  in  manuscript,  and  consti- 
tute the  initiatory  learning,  not  only  of  the  Rosicrucians,  but 
of  the  noble  brotherhoods  I have  referred  to.  More  solemn 
and  sublime  still  is  the  knowledge  to  be  gleaned  from  the  el- 
der Pythagoreans,  and  the  immortal  master-pieces  of  Apollo- 
nius.” 

“ Apollonius  the  imposter  of  Tyanea  ! are  his  writings 
extant  ? ” • 

“ Imposter  ! ” cried  my  host ; “ Apollonius  an  imposter  ! ” 

‘‘  I beg  your  pardon ; I did  not  know  he  was  a friend  of 
yours ; and  if  you  vouch  for  his  character,  I will  believe  him 
to  have  been  a very  respectable  man,  who  only  spoke  tho 
truth  when  he  boasted  of  his  power  to  be  in  two  places  at 
the  same  time.” 

Is  that  so  difficult  ? ” said  the  old  gentleman ; “ if  so,  yo»« 
have  never  dreamed  ! ” 


xiv 


INTRODUCTION. 


Here  ended  our  conversation ; but  from  that  time  an  ac- 
quaintance was  formed  between  us,  which  lasted  till  my 
venerable  friend  departed  this  life.  Peace  to  his  ashes  ! He 
was  a person  of  singular  habits  and  eccentric  opinions ; but 
the  chief  part  of  his  time  was  occupied  in  acts  of  quiet  and 
unostentatious  goodness.  He  was  an  enthusiast  in  the  duties 
of  the  Samaritan;  and  as  his  virtues  were  softened  by  the 
gentlest  charity,  so  his  hopes  were  based  upon  the  devoutest 
belief.  He  never  conversed  upon  his  own  origin  and  his- 
tory, nor  have  I ever  been  able  to  penetrate  the  darkness  in 
which  they  were  concealed.  He  seemed  to  have  seen  much 
of  the  world,  and  to  have  been  an  eye-witness  of  the  first 
French  Revolution,  a subject  upon  which  he  was  equally  elo- 
quent and  instructive.  At  the  same  time,  he  did  not  regard 
the  crimes  of  that  stormy  period  with  the  philosophical  leni- 
ency with  which  enlightened  writers  (their  heads  safe 
upon  their  shoulders)  are,  in  the  present  day,  inclined  to  treat 
the  massacres  of  the  past:  he  spoke  not  as  a student  who 
had  read  and  reasoned,  but  as  a man  who  had  seen  and  suf- 
fered. The  old  gentleman  seemed  alone  in  the  world ; nor 
did  I know  that  he  had  one  relation,  till  his  executor,  a dis- 
tant cousin,  residing  abroad,  informed  me  of  the  very  hand- 
some legacy  which  my  poor  friend  had  bequeathed  me.  This 
consisted  first  of  a sum  about  which  I think  it  best  to  be 
guarded,  foreseeing  the  possibility  of  a new  tax  upon  real 
and  funded  property ; and  secondly,  of  certain  precious  man- 
uscripts, to  which  the  following  volumes  owe  their  existence. 

I imagine  I trace  this  latter  bequest  to  a visit  I paid  the 
Sage,  if  so  I may  be  permitted  to  call  him,  a few  weeks  before 
his  death. 


INTROD  UCTION. 


Although  he  read  little  of  our  modern  literature,  my  friend, 
with  the  affable  good-nature  which  belonged  to  him,  graciously 
permitted  me  to  consult  him  upon  various  literary  undertak- 
ings meditated  by  the  desultory  ambition  of  a young  and  inex- 
perienced student.  And  at  that  time  I sought  his  advice  upon 
a work  of  imagination,  intended  to  depict  the  effects  of  enthu- 
siasm upon  different  modifications  of  character.  He  listened 
to  my  conception,  which  was  sufficiently  trite  and  prosaic, 
with  his  usual  patience ; and  then,  thoughtfully  turning  to  his 
book-shelves,  took  down  an  old  volume,  and  read  to  me,  first 
in  Greek,  and  secondly  in  English,  some  extracts  to  the  fol- 
lowing effect ; — 

Plato  here  expresses  four  kinds  of  Mania,  by  which  I 
desire  to  understand  enthusiasm  and  the  inspiration  of  the 
gods. — Firstly,  the  musical : secondly,  the  telestic  or  mystic ; 
thirdly,  the  prophetic ; and  fourthly,  that  which  belongs 
to  Love.” 

The  Author  he  quoted,  after  contending  that  there  is  some- 
thing in  the  soul  above  intellect,  and  stating  that  there  are  in 
our  nature  distinct  energies,  by  the  one  of  which  we  discover 
and  seize  as  it  were  on  sciences  and  theorems  with  almost 
intuitive  rapidity,  by  another,  through  which  high  art  is  accom- 
plished, like  the  statues  of  Phidias,  proceeded  to  state,  that 
“ enthusiasm,  in  the  true  acceptation  of  the  word,  is,  when 
that  part  of  the  soul  which  is  above  intellect  is  excited  to  the 
gods,  and  thence  derives  its  inspiration.” 

The  Author  then  pursuing  his  comment  upon  Plato, 
observes,  that  “ one  of  these  manias  may  suffice  (especially 
that  which  belongs  to  Love)  to  lead  back  the  soul  to  its  first 
divinity  and  happiness ; but  that  there  is  an  intimate  union 
with  them  all ; and  that  the  ordinary  progress  through  which 


INTRODUCTION-. 


xv! 

the  soul  ascends  is,  primarily  through  the  musical ; next; 
through  the  telestic  or  mystic ; thirdly,  through  the  prophetic ; 
and  last,  through  the  enthusiasm  of  Love.” 

While  with  a bewildered  understanding  and  a reluctant 
attention,  I listened  to  these  intricate  sublimities,  my  adviser 
closed  the  volume,  and  said  with  complacency,  “ There  is  the 
motto  for  your  book — the  thesis  for  your  theme.” 

Davus  sutUy  non  CEdipus,^’  said  I,  shaking  my  head,  dis- 
contentedly. “ All  this  may  be  exceedingly  fine,  but  Heaven 
forgive  me — I don’t  understand  a word  of  it.  The  mysteries 
of  your  Rosicrucians,  and  your  fraternities,  are  mere  child’s 
play  to  the  jargon  of  the  Platonists.” 

“ Yet,  not  till  you  rightly  understand  this  passage,  can  you 
understand  the  higher  theories  of  the  Rosicrucians,  or  of  the 
still  nobler  fraternities  you  speak  of  with  so  much  levity.” 

“ Oh,  if  that  be  the  case,  I give  up  in  despair.  Why  not, 
since  you  are  so  well  versed  in  the  matter,  take  the  motto 
for  a book  of  your  own  ? ” 

“ But  if  I have  already  composed  a book  with  that  thesis 
for  its  theme,  will  you  prepare  it  for  th^  puBlic  ? ” 

“ With  the  greatest  pleasure,”  said  I, — alas,  too  rashly  ! 

“ I shall  hold  you  to  your  promise,”  returned  the  old  gentle- 
man, “ and  when  I am  no  more,  you  will  receive  the  manu- 
scripts. From  what  you  say  of  the  prevailing  taste  in  litera- 
ture, I cannot  flatter  you  with  the  hope  that  you  will  gain 
much  by  the  undertaking.  And  I tell  5’’Ou  beforehand  that 
you  will  find  it  not  a little  laborious.” 

“ Is  your  work  a romance  ? ” 

“ It  is  a romance,  and  it  is  not  a romance.  It  Is  a truth  foi 
those  who  can  comprehend  it,  and  an  extravagance  for  thosa 
tvho  cannot.” 


INTROD  UCTION. 


xvH 

At  last  there  arrived  the  manuscripts,  with  a brief  note  from 
my  deceased  friend,  reminding  me  of  my  imprudent  promise. 

With  mournful  interest,  and  yet  with  eager  impatience,  I 
opened  the  packet  and  trimmed  my  lamp.  Conceive  my  dis- 
may when  I found  the  whole  written  in  an  unintelligible  cipher, 
I present  the  reader  with  a specimen ; 


H lEROGLYPHICS 


and  so  on  for  nine  hundred  and  forty  mortal  pages  in  foolscapt 
I could  scarcely  believe  my  eyes ; in  fact,  I began  to  think  the 
lamp  burned  singularly  blue  ; and  sundry  misgivings  as  to  the 
unhallowed  nature  of  the  characters  I had  so  unwittingly 
opened  upon,  coupled  with  the  strange  hints  and  mystical 
language  of  the  old  gentleman,  crept  through  my  disordered 
imagination.  Certainly,  to  say  no  worse  of  it,  the  whole 
thing  looked  uncanny!  I was  about,  precipitately,  to  hurry 
the  papers  into  my  desk,  with  a pious  determination  to  have 
nothing  more  to  do  with  them,  when  my  eye  fell  upon  a book, 
neatly  bound  in  blue  morocco,  and  which,  in  my  eagerness,  I 
had  hitherto  overlooked.  I opened  this  volume  with  great 
precaution,  not  knowing  what  might  jump  out,  and — ^guess 
my  delight — ^found  that  it  contained  a key  or  dictionary  to  the 
hieroglyphics.  Not  to  weary  the  reader  with  an  account  of 
my  labors,  I am  contented  with  saying  that  at  last  I imagined 
myself  capable  of  construing  the  characters,  and  set  to  work 
in  good  earnest.  Still  it  was  no  easy  task,  and  two  years 
elapsed  before  I had  made  much  progress,  1 theiv 


xvm 


INTRODUCTION. 


of  experiment  on  the  public,  obtained  the  insertion  of  a fe\^ 
desultory  chapters,  in  a periodical  with  which,  for  a few 
months,  I had  the  honor  to  be  connected.  They  appeared 
to  excite  more  curiosity  than  I had  presumed  to  anticipate ; 
and  I renewed,  with  better  heart,  my  laborious  undertaking. 
But  now  a new  misfortune  befell  me  : I found  as  I proceeded, 
that  the  Author  had  made  two  copies  of  his  work,  one  much 
more  elaborate  and  detailed  than  the  other : I had  stumbled 
upon  the  earlier  copy,  and  had  my  whole  task  to  re-model, 
and  the  chapters  I had  written  to  re-translate.  I may  say 
then,  that,  exclusive  of  intervals  devoted  to  more  pressing 
occupations,  my  unlucky  promise  cost  me  the  toil  of  several 
years  before  I could  bring  it  to  adequate  fulfilment.  The 
task  was  the  more  difficult,  since  the  style  in  the  original  is 
written  in  a kind  of  rhythmical  prose,  as  if  the  author  desired 
that  in  some  degree  his  work  should  be  regarded  as  one  of 
poetical  conception  and  design.  To  this  it  was  not  possible 
to  do  justice,  and  in  the  attempt,  I have,  doubtless,  very  often 
need  of  the  reader’s  indulgent  consideration.  My  natural 
respect  for  the  old  gentleman’s  vagaries,  with  a muse  of 
equivocal  character,  must  be  my  only  excuse  whenever  the 
language,  without  luxuriating  into  verse,  borrows  flowers 
scarcely  natural  to  prose.  Truth  compels  me  also  to  con- 
fess that,  with  all  my  pains,  I am  by  no  means  sure  that  I 
have  invariably  given  the  true  meaning  .)f  the  cipher ; nay, 
that  here  and  there  either  a gap  in  the  narrative,  or  the 
sudden  assumption  of  a new  cipher,  to  which  no  key  was 
afforded,  has  obliged  me  to  resort  tpr  interpolations  of  my 
own,  no  doubt  easily  discernible,  but  whid^  I flatter  myself, 
are  not  inharmonious  to  the  general  design.  This  confession 
leads  me  to  the  sentence  with  which  I shall  Gonclude— If, 


INTRO  D UCTION 


xix 

reader,  in  this  book  there  be  anything  that  pleases  you,  it  is 
certainly  mine ; but  whenever  you  come  to  something  you 
dislike, — ^lay  the  blame  upon  the  old  gentleman ! 

London,  January^  1842 

N.  B.— The  notes  appended  to  the  text  are  sometimes  by  the  author,  somethnes  bf 
the  Editor, — I have  occasionally  (but  not  always)  marked  the  distinction  ; — where, 
kowerer,  this  is  omitted,  the  ingenuity  of  the  Reader  vail  be  rarely  at  fault* 


ZANONI.' 


CHAPTER  L 

Vergina  era 

D’ alta  beltk,  ma  sua  beM  non  cura: 

^ ^ « 9^ 

Di  matura,  d’  amor,  de’  deli  amid 

Le  negligenze  sue  sono  artifid. 

Gerusal.  lib.,  canto  ii.  xlv. — xrai. 

At  Naples,  in  the  latter  half  of  the  last  century,  a worthy- 
artist,  named  Gaetano  Pisani,  lived  and  flourished.  He  was 
a musician  of  great  genius,  but  not  of  popular  reputation ; 
there  was  in  all  his  compositions  something  capricious  and 
fantastic,  which  did  not  please  the  taste  of  the  Dilettanti  of 
Naples.  He  was  fond  of  unfamiliar  subjects,  into  which  he 
introduced  airs  and  symphonies  that  excited  a kind  of  terror 
in  those  who  listened.  The  names  of  his  pieces  will  probably 
suggest  their  nature.  I find,  for  instance,  among  his  MSS., 
these  titles  : “ The  Feast  of  the  Harpies,”  “ The  Witches  at 
Benevento,”  “ The  Decent  of  Orpheus  into  Hades,”  “ The 
Evil  Eye,”  “ The  Eumenides,”  and  many  others  that  evince  a 
powerful  imagination,  delighting  in  the  fearful  and  superna- 
tural, but  often  relieved,  by  an  airy  and  delicate  fancy,  with 
passages  of  exquisite  grace  and  beauty.  It  is  true  that  in  the 
selection  of  his  subjects  from  ancient  fable,  Gaetano  Pisani 
was  much,  more  faithful  than  his  contemporaries  to  the  remote 
origin  and  the  early  genius  of  Italian  Opera.  That  descen- 
dant, however  effeminate,  of  the  ancient  union  between  Song 
and  Drama,  when,  after  long  obscurity  and  dethronement,  it 
regained  a punier  sceptre,  though  a gaudier  purple,  by  the 
banks  ©f  the  Etrurian  Arno,  or  amidst  the  Lagunes  of  Venice^ 

* She  was  a virgin  ot  glorious  beauty,  but  regarded  not  her  beauty  • 
Negligence  itself  is  art  in  those  favored  by  nature,  by  love,  and  by  the  heaven*. 


22 


ZANONI. 


had  chosen  all  its  primary  inspirations  from  the  unfamiliar 
and  classic  sources  of  heathen  legend  ; and  Pisani’s  “ Descent 
of  Orpheus”  was  but  a bolder,  darker,  and  more  scientific  re- 
petition of  the  “ Euridice”  whichjacopi  Peri  set  to  music  at  the 
august  nuptials  of  Henry  of  Navarre  and  Mary  of  Medicis.* 
Still,  as  I have  said,  the  style  of  the  Neapolitan  musician  was 
not  on  the  whole  pleasing  to  ears  grown  nice  and  euphuistic 
in  the  more  dulcet  melodies  of  the  day ; and  faults  and  ex- 
travagancies easily  discernible,  and  often  to  appearance  wilful, 
served  the  critics  for  an  excuse  for  their  distaste.  Fortunately, 
or  the  poor  musician  might  have  starved,  he  was  not  only  a 
composer,  but  also  an  excellent  practical  performer,  especially 
on  the  violin,  and  by  that  instrument  he  earned  a decent  sub- 
sistence as  one  of  the  orchestra  at  the  Great  Theatre  of  San 
Carlo.  Here,  formal  and  appointed  tasks  necessarily  kept 
his  eccentric  fancies  in  tolerable  check,  though  it  is  recorded 
that  no  less  than  five  times  he  had  been  deposed  from  his 
desk  for  having  shocked  the  conoscenti,  and  thrown  the 
whole  band  into  confusion,  by  impromptu  variations  of  so  fran- 
tic and  startling  a nature  that  one  might  well  have  imagined 
that  the  harpies  or  witches  who  inspired  his  compositions  had 
clawed  hold  of  his  instrument.  The  impossibility,  however, 
to  find  any  one  of  equal  excellence  as  a performer  (that  is  to 
say,  in  his  more  lucid  and  orderly  moments),  had  forced  his 
reinstalment,  and  he  had  now,  for  the  most  part,  reconciled 
himself  to  the  narrow  sphere  of  his  appointed  adagios  or  alle- 
gros. The  audience,  too,  aware  of  his  propensity,  were  quick 
to  perceive  the  least  deviation  from  the  text ; and  if  he  wan- 
dered for  a moment,  which  might  also  be  detected  by  the  eye 
as  well  as  the  ear,  in  some  strange  contortion  of  visage,  and 
some  ominous  flourish  of  his  bow,  a gentle  and  admonitory 
murmur  recalled  the  musician  from  his  Elysium  or  his  Tar- 
tarus, to  the  sober  regions  of  his  desk.  Then  he  would  start 
as  if  from  a dream — cast  a hurried,  frightened,  apologetic 
glance  around,  and,  with  a crestfallen,  humbled  air,  draw  his 
rebellious  instrument  back  to  the  beaten  track  of  the  glib 
monotony.  But  at  home  he  would  make  himself  amends  for 
this  reluctant  drudgery.  And  there,  grasping  the  unhappy 
violin  with  ferocious  fingers,  he  would  pour  forth,  often  till 
the  morning  rose,  strange  wild  measures,  that  would  startle 
the  early  fisherman  on  the  shore  below  with  a superstitions 

* Orpheus  was  the  favorite  hero  of  early  Italian  Opera,  or  Lyrical  Drama.  Th« 
Orfeo  of  Angelo  Politiano  was  produced  1475  Orfeo  of  Monteverde  was  pc^ 

formed  at  Venice  in  1667 


ZANONI. 


23 


awe,  and  make  him  cross  himself  as  if  mermaid  or  sprite  had 
wailed  no  earthly  music  in  his  ear. 

This  man’s  appearance  was  in  keeping  with  the  charac- 
teristics of  his  art.  The  features  were  noble  and  striking, 
but  worn  and  haggard,  with  black,  careless  locks,  tangled  in- 
to a maze  of  curls,  and  a fixed,  speculative,  dreamy  stare  in 
his  large  and  hollow  eyes.  All  his  movements  were  peculiar, 
sudden,  and  abrupt,  as  the  impulse  seized  him  ; and  in  gliding 
through  the  streets,  or  along  the  beach,  he  was  heard  laughing 
and  talking  to  himself.  Withal,  he  was  a harmless,  guileless, 
gentle  creature,  and  would  share  his  mite  with  any  idle  laz- 
zaroni,  whom  he  often  paused  to  contemplate  as  they  lay  lazily 
basking  in  the  sun.  Yet  was  he  thoroughly  unsocial.  He 
formed  no  friends,  flattered  no  patrons,  resorted  to  none  of 
the  merry-makings,  so  dear  to  the  children  of  music  and  the 
south.  He  and  his  art  seemed  alone  suited  to  each  other — 
both  quaint,  primitive,  unworldly,  irregular.  You  could  not 
separate  the  man  from  his  music  ; it  was  himself. . Without 
it,  he  was  nothing,  a mere  machine  ! With  it,  he  was  king 
over  worlds  of  his  own.  Poor  man,  he  had  little  enough  in 
this  ! — At  a manufacturing  town  in  England  there  is  a grave- 
stone, on  which  the  epitaph  records  “ one  Claudius  Phillips, 
whose  absolute  contempt  for  riches,  and  inimitable  performance 
on  the  violin,  made  him  the  admiration  of  all  that  know  him  ! ” 
Logical  conjunction  of  opposite  eulogies  ! ” In  proportion,  O 
Genius,  to  thy  contempt  for  riches,  will  be  thy  performance 
on  thy  violin ! 

Gaetano  Pisani’s  talents  as  a composer  had  been  chiefly 
exhibited  in  music  appropriate  to  this  his  favorite  instrument, 
of  all,  unquestionably,  the  most  various  and  royal  in  its 
resources  and  power  over  passions.  As  Shakespeare  among 
poets,  is  the  Cremona  among  instruments.  Nevertheless,  he 
had  composed  other  pieces,  of  larger  ambition  and  wider 
accomplishment,  and,  chief  of  these,  his  precious — his 
unpurchased — his  unpublished — his  unpublishable  and  imper- 
ishable opera  of  the  “ Siren.”  This  great  work  had  been  the 
cream  of  his  boyhood — the  mistress  of  his  manhood;  in 
advancing  age  “ it  stood  beside  him  like  his  youth.”  Vainly 
had  he  struggled  to  place  it  before  the  world.  Even  bland, 
unjealous  Paisiello,  Maestro  di  Capella,  shook  his  gentle  head 
when  the  musician  favored  him  with  a specimen  of  one  of 
his  most  thrilling  scenes.  And  yet,  Paisiello,  though  that 
music  differs  from  all  Durante  taught  thee  to  emulate,  there 


24 


ZANONI. 


may — but  patience,  Gaetano  Pisani !— -bide  thy  time,  and  keep 
thy  violin  in  tune  ! 

b'trange  as  it  may  appear  to  a fairer  reader,  this  grotesque 
personage  had  yet  formed  those  ties  which  ordinary  mortals 
are  apt  to  consider  their  especial  monopoly — he  was  married, 
and  had  one  child.  What  is  more  strange  .yet,  his  wife  was  a 
daughter  of  quiet,  sober,  unfantastic  England  ; she  was  much 
younger  than  himself  ; she  was  fair  and  gentle,  with  a sweet 
English  face  : she  had  married  him  from  choice,  and  (will  you 
believe  it  ?)  she  yet  loved  him.  How  she  came  to  marry  him, 
or  how  this  shy,  unsocial,  wayward  creature  ever  ventured  to 
propose,  I can  only  explain  by  asking  you  to  look  round  and 
explain  first  to  me  how  half  the  husbands  and  half  the  wives 
you  meet  ever  found  a mate  ! Yet,  on  reflection,  this  union 
was  not  so  extraordinary  after  all.  The  girl  was  a natural  child 
of  parents  too  noble  ever  to  own  and  claim  her.  She  was 
brought  into  Italy  to  learn  the  art  by  which  she  was  to  live, 
for  she  had  taste  and  voice  ; she  was  a dependant,  and  harshly 
treated  ; and  poor  Pisani  was  her  master,  and  his  voice  the 
only  one  she  had  heard  from  her  cradle,  that  seemed  without 
one  tone  that  could  scprn  or  chide.  And  so — ^well,  is  the  rest 
natural  ? Natural  or  not,  they  married.  This  young  wife 
loved  her  husband  ; and  young  and  gentle  as  she  was,  she 
might  almost  be  said  to  be  the  protector  of  the  two.  From 
how  many  disgraces  with  the  despots  of  San  Carlo  and  the 
Conservatorio  had  her  unknown  officious  fmebiation  saved 
him  ? In  how  many  ailments — for  his  frame  was  weak — 
had  she  nursed  and  tended  him  ! Often,  in  dark%  nights,  she 
would  wait  at  the  theatre,  with  her  lantern  to  light  him,  and 
her  steady  arm  to  lean  on  ; — otherwise,  in  his  abstract  rev- 
eries, who  knows  but  the  musician  would  have  walked  after 
his  “ Siren  ” into  the  sea  ! And  then  she  would  so  patiently, 
perhaps  (for  in  true  love  there  is  not  always  the  finest 
taste)  so  delightedly  listen  to  those  storms  of  eccentric  and  fit- 
ful melody,  and  steal  him — whispering  praises  all  the  way — 
from  the  unwholesome  night-watch  to  rest  and  sleep!  I said 
his  music  was  a part  of  the  man,  and  this  gentle  creature 
seemed  a part  of  the  music ; it  was,  in  fact,  when  she  sat 
beside  him,  that  whatever  was  tender  or  fairy-like  in  his  mot- 
ley fantasia  crept  into  the  harmony  as  by  stealth.  Doubtless 
her  presence  acted  on  the  music,  and  shaped  and  softened 
it ; but  he,  who  never  examined  how  or  what  his  inspiration, 
knew  it  not.  All  that  he  knew  was,  that  he  loved  and  Messed 
her.  He  fancied  he  told  her  so  twenty  times  a day ; but  h« 


ZANOm. 


n 

aever  did,  lot  he  was  not  of  many  words,  even  to  his  wife. 
His  language  was  his  music,  as  hers — her  cares ! He  was 
more  communicative  to  his  barbiton^  as  the  learned  Mersen- 
nus  teaches  us  to  call  all  the  varieties  of  the  great  viol  family. 
Certainly  barbiton  sounds  better  than  fiddle  ; and  barbiton 
let  it  be.  He  would  talk  to  that  by  the  hour  together- — praise 
it — scold  it — coax  it,  nay  (for  such  is  man,  even  the  most 
guileless),  he  had  been  known  to  swear  at  it ; but  for  that 
excess  he  was  always  penitentially  remorseful.  And  the  bar- 
biton  had  a tongue  of  his  own,  could  take  his  own  part,  and 
when  he  also  scolded,  had  much  the  best  of  it.  He  was  a 
noble  fellow,  this  Violin  ! a Tyrolese,  the  handiwork  of  the 
illustrious  Steiner.  There  was  something  mysterious  in  his 
great  age.  How  many  hands  now  dust,  had  awakened  his 
strings  ere  he  became  the  Robin  Goodfellow  and  Familiar  of 
Gaetano  Pisani ! Flis  very  case  was  venerable ; beautifully 
painted,  it  was  said,  by  Caracci.  An  English  collector  had 
offered  more  for  the  case  than  Pisani  had  ever  made  by  the 
violin.  Pisani,  who  cared  not  if  he  had  inhabited  a cabin 
himself,  was  proud  of  a palace  for  the  barbiton.  His  barbh 
ton,  it  was  his  elder  child  ! He  had  another  child,  and  now 
we  must  turn  to  her. 

How  shall  I describe  thee,  Viola  ? Certainly  the  music  had 
something  to  answer  for  in  the  advent  of  that  young  stranger. 
For  both  in  her  form  and  her  character  you  might  have 
traced  a family  likeness  to  that  singular  and  spirit4ike  life  of 
sound  which  night  after  night  threw  itself  in  airy  and  goblin 
sport  over  the  starry  seas.  . . .Beautiful  she  was,  but  of  a 
very  uncommon  beauty — a combination,  a harmony  of  oppo- 
site attributes.  Her  hair  of  a gold  richer  and  purer  ‘than 
that  which  is  seen  even  in  the  north : but  the  eyes,  of  all  the 
dark,  tender,  subduing  light  of  more  than  Italian — almost  of  ori- 
ental— splendor.  The  complexion  exquisitely  fair,  but  never 
the  same — vivid  in  one  moment,  pale  the  next.  And  with  the 
complexion,  the  expression  also  varied ; nothing  now  so  sad, 
and  nothing  now  so  joyous. 

I grieve  to  say  that  what  we  rightly  entitle  education  was 
much  neglected  for  their  daughter  by  this  singular  pair.  To 
be  sure,  neither  of  them  had  much  knowledge  to  bestow ; 
and  knowledge  was  not  then  the  fashion,  as  it  is  now.  But 
accident  or  nature  favored  young  Viola.  She  learned,  as  erf 
course,  her  mother’s  language  with  her  father’s.  And  she 
contrived  soon  to  read  and  to  write  ; and  her  mother,  who,  by 
the  way,  w^as  a Roman  Catholic,  taught  her  betimes  to  pray 


26 


ZANONI. 


But  then,  to  counteract  all  these  acquisitions,  the  strange 
habits  of  Pisani,  and  the  incessant  watch  and  care  which  he 
required  from  his  wife,  often  left  the  child  alone  with  an  old 
nurse  ; who,  to  be  sure,  loved  her  dearly,  but  who  was  in  no 
way  calculated  to  instruct  her.  Dame  Gionetta  was  every  inch 
Italian  and  Neapolitan.  Her  youth  had  been  all  love,  and 
her  age  was  all  superstition.  She  was  garrulous,  fond — a 
gossip.  Now  she  would  prattle  to  the  girl  of  cavaliers  and 
princes  at  her  feet,  and  now  she  would  freeze  her  blood  with 
tales  and  legends,  perhaps  as  old  as  Greek  or  Etrurian  fable 
— of  demon  and  vampire — of  the  dances  round  the  great 
walnut-tree  at  Benevento,  and  the  haunting  spell  of  the  Evil 
Eye.  All  this  helped  silently  to  weave  charmed  webs  over 
Viola’s  imagination,  that  after-thought  and  later  years  might 
labor  vainly  to  dispel.  And  all  this  especially  fitted  her  to 
hang,  with  a fearful  joy,  upon  her  father’s  music.  Those 
visionary  strains,  ever  struggling  to  translate  into  wild  and 
broken  sounds  the  language  of  unearthly  beings,  breathed 
around  her  from  her  birth.  Thus  you  might  have  said  that 
her  whole  mind  was  full  of  music — associations,  memories, 
sensations  of  pleasure  or  pain,  all  were  mixed  up  inexplicably 
with  those  sounds  that  now  delighted  and  now  terrified — that 
greeted  her  when  her  eyes  opened  to  the  sun,  and  woke  hei 
trembling  on  her  lonely  couch  in  the  darkness  of  the  night 
The  legends  and  tales  of  Gionetta  only  served  to  make  the 
child  better  understand  the  signification  of  those  mysterious 
tones  ; they  furnished  her  with  words  to  the  music.  It  was 
natural  that  the  daughter  of  such  a parent  should  soon  evince 
some  taste  in  his  art.  But  this  developed  itself  chiefly  in  the 
ear  and  the  voice.  She  was  yet  a child  when  she  sang 
divinely.  A great  Cardinal — great  alike  in  the  state  and  the 
Conservatorio — heard  of  her  gifts,  and  sent  for  her.  From 
that  moment  her  fate  was  decided  : she  was  to  be  the  future 

glory  of  Naples,  the  prima  donna  of  San  Carlo.  The  Cardinal 
insisted  upon  the  accomplishment  of  his  own  prediction,  and 
provided  her  with  the  most  renowned  masters.  To  inspire 
her  with  emulation,  his  Eminence  took  her  one  evening  to  his 
own  box : it  would  be  something  to  see  the  performance, 
something  more  to  hear  the  applause  lavished  upon  the  glit- 
tering signoras  she  was  hereafter  to  excel ! Oh,  how  gloriously 
that  Life  of  the  Stage — that  fairy  World  of  Music  and  Song, 
dawned  upon  her ! It  was  the  only  world  that  seemed  to 
correspond  with  her  strange  childish  thoughts.  It  appeared  to 
her  as  if,  cast  hitherto  on  a foreign  shore,  she  was  brought  at  las# 


ZANONL 


27 


,to  see  the  forms  and  hear  the  language  of  her  native  land. 
Beautiful  and  true  enthusiasm,  rich  with  the  promise  of 
Genius  ! Boy  or  man,  thou  wilt  never  be  a poet,  if  thou  hast 
not  felt  the  ideal,  the  romance,  the  Calypso’s  isle  that  opened 
to  thee,  when  for  the  first  time,  the  magic  curtain  was  drawn  i 
aside,  and  let  in  the  World  of  Poetry  on  the  World  of  Prose  ! 

And  now  the  initiation  was  begun.  She  was  to  read,  to 
study,  to  depict  by  a gesture,  a look,  the  passions  she  was  to 
delineate  on  the  boards ; lessons  dangerous,  in  truth,  to  some, 
but  not  to  the  pure  enthusiasm  that  comes  from  Art ; for  the 
mind  that  rightly  conceives  Art,  is  but  a mirror,  which  gives 
back  what  is  cast  on  its  surface  faithfully  only — while  unsul- 
lied. She  seized  on  nature  and  truth  intuitively.  Her 
recitations  became  full  of  unconscious  power ; her  voice 
moved  the  heart  to  tears,  or  warmed  it  into  generous  rage. 
But  this  arose  from  that  sympathy  which  genius  ever  has, 
even  in  its  earliest  innocence,  with  whatever  feels,  or  aspires, 
or  suffers.  It  was  no  premature  woman  comprehending  the 
love  or  the  jealousy  that  the  words  expressed ; her  art  was 
one  of  those  strange  secrets  which  the  psychologists  may  un- 
riddle to  us  if  they  please,  and  tell  us  why  children  of  the 
simplest  minds  and  the  purest  hearts  are  often  so  acute  to 
distinguish,  in  the  tales  you  tell  them,  or  the  songs  you  sing, 
the  difference  between  the  true  Art  and  the  False — Passion 
and  Jargon — Homer  and  Racine  ; — echoing  back,  from  hearts 
that  have  not  yet  felt  what  they  repeat,  the  melodious  accents 
of  the  natural  pathos.  Apart  from  her  studies,  Viola  was  a 
simple,  affectionate,  but  somewhat  wayward  child  ; wayward, 
not  in  temper,  for  that  was  sweet  and  docile,  but  in  her  moods, 
which,  as  I before  hinted,  changed  from  sad  to  gay  and  gay 
to  sad  without  an  apparent  cause.  If  cause  there  were,  it 
must  be  traced  to  the  early  and  mysterious  influences  I have 
referred  to,  when  seeking  to  explain  the  effect  produced  on 
her  imagination  by  those  restless  streams  of  sound  that 
constantly  played  around  it : for  it  is  noticeable,  that  to  those 
who  are  much  alive  to  the  effects  of  music,  airs  and  tunes 
often  come  back,  in  the  commonest  pursuits  of  life,  to  vex,  as 
it  were,  and  haunt  them.  The  music,  once  admitted  to  the 
soul,  becomes  also  a sort  of  spirit,  and  never  dies.  It  wan- 
ders perturbedly  through  the  halls  and  galleries  of  the 
memory,  and  is  often  heard  again,  distinct  and  living  as  when 
it  first  displaced  the  wavelets  of  the  air.  Now  at  times,  then, 
these  phantoms  of  sound  floated  back  upon  her  fancy ; if 
gay,  to  call  a smile  from  every  dimple  ; if  mournful,  to  throw 


28  ZANOm. 

a shade  upon  her  brow — to  make  her  cease  from  her  childisK 
mirth,  and  sit  apart  and  muse. 

Rightly,  then,  in  a typical  sense,  might  this  fair  creature, 
so  airy  in  her  shape,  so  harmonious  in  her  beauty,  so  unfa- 
miliar in  her  ways  and  thoughts, — rightly  might  she  be  called 
a daughter,  less  of  the  musician  than  the  Music — a being  for 
whom  you  could  imagine  that  some  fate  was  reserved,  less  of 
actual  life  than  the  romance  which,  to  eyes  that  can  see,  and 
hearts  that  can  feel,  glides  ever  along  with  the  actual  life, 
stream  by  stream,  to  the  Dark  Ocean. 

And  therefore  it  seemed  not  strange  that  Viola  herself, 
even  in  childhood,  and  yet  more  as  she  bloomed  into  the 
sweet  seriousness  of  virgin  youth,  should  fancy  her  life 
ordained  for  a lot,  whether  of  bliss  or  woe,  that  should  ac- 
cord with  the  romance  and  reverie  which  made  the  atmosphere 
she  breathed.  Frequently  she  would  climb  through  the 
thickets  that  clothed  the  neighboring  grotto  of  Posilipo — the 
mighty  work  of  the  old  Cimmerians, — and,  seated  by  the 
haunted  tomb  of  Virgil,  indulge  those  visions,  the  subtle 
vagueness  of  which  no  poetry  can  render  palpable  and 
defined : — ^for  the  Poet  that  surpasses  all  who  ever  sung — is 
the  Heart  of  dreaming  Youth  ! Frequently  there,  too,  beside 
the  threshold  over  which  the  vine-leaves  clung,  and  facing 
that  dark-blue,  waveless  sea,  she  would  sit  in  the  autumn  noon 
or  summer  twilight,  and  build  her  castles  in  the  air.  Who 
doth  not  do  the  same — not  in  youth  alone,  but  with  the  dimmed 
hopes  of  age  ! It  is  man’s  prerogative  to  dream,  the  common 
royalty  of  peasant  and  of  king.  But  those  day-dreams  of 
hers  were  more  habitual,  distinct,  and  solemn,  than  the  greater 
part  of  us  indulge.  They  seemed  like  the  Orama  of  the 
Greeks — prophets  while  phantasma. 


CHAPTER  II 

Fu  stupor,  fu  vaghezza,  fu  diletto  ! • 

Gerusal.  Lib.  , cant.  ii.  xxL 

Now  AT  last  the  education  is  accomplished!  Viola  ia 
nearly  sixteen.  The  Cardinal  declares  that  the  time  is  come 
when  the  new  name  must  be  inscribed  in  the  Libro  d’Oro — ■ 
the  Golden  Book  set  apart  to  the  children  of  Art  and  Song. 
Yes,  but  in  what  character  t — to  whose  genius  is  she  to  give 


# « Desire  it  was,  ’twas  wonder,  ’twas  delight.” — Wiffen’s  translation* 


ZANONI, 


embodiment  and  form  ? Ah,  there  is  the  secret ! Rumoi.* 
go  abroad  that  the  inexhaustible  Paisiello,  charmed  with  her 
performance  of  his  JVe/  cor  piu  non  me  sento  and  his  lo  son 
Lindoro^  will  produce  some  new  master-piece  to  introduce  the 
debutante.  Others  insist  upon  it  that  her  forte  is  the  comic, 
and  that  Cimarosa  is  hard  at  work  another  Matrimonio 
Segreto.  But  in  the  meanwhile  there  is  a check  in  the  di- 
plomacy somewhere.  The  Cardinal  is  observed  to  be  out  of 
humor.  He  has  said  publicly — and  the  words  are  portentous 
— “ The  silly  girl  is  as  mad  as  her  father — what  she  asks  is 
preposterous  ! ” Conference  follows  conference — the  Car- 
dinal talks  to  the  poor  child  very  solemnly  in  his  closet — all 
in  vain.  Naples  is  distracted  with  curiosity  and  conjecture. 
The  lecture  ends  in  a quarrel,  and  Viola  comes  home  sullen 
and  pouting  ; she  will  not  act — she  has  renounced  the  engage- 
ment. 

Pisani,  too  inexperienced  to  be  aware  of  all  the  dangers 
of  the  stage,  had  been  pleased  at  the  notion  that  one,  at 
least,  of  his  name,  would  add  celebrity  to  his  art.  The  girl’s 
perverseness  displeased  him.  However,  he  said  nothing — 
he  never  scolded  in  words,  but  he  took  up  the  faithful 
barbiton.  Oh,  faithful  barbiton,  how  horribly  thou  didst 
scold  ! It  screeched — it  gabbled — it  moaned — it  growled. 
And  Viola’s  eyes  filled  with  tears,  for  she  understood  that 
language.  She  stole  to  her  mother,  and  whispered  in  her 
ear  ; and  when  Pisani  turned  from  his  employment,  lo  I both 
mother  and  daughter  were  weeping.  He  looked  at  them 
with  a wondering  stare  ; and  then,  as  if  he  felt  he  had  been 
harsh,  he  flew  again  to  his  Familiar.  And  now  you  thought 
you  heard  the  lullaby  which  a fairy  might  sing  to  some  fretful 
changeling  it  had  adopted  and  sought  to  soothe.  Liquid, 
low,  silvery,  streamed  the  tones  beneath  the  enchanted  bow. 
The  most  stubborn  grief  would  have  paused  to  hear ; and 
withal,  at  times,  out  came  a wild,  merry,  ringing  note,  like  a 
laugh ; but  not  mortal  laughter.  It  was  one  of  his  most 
successful  airs  from  his  beloved  opera — the  Siren  in  the  act 
of  charming  the  waves  and  the  winds  to  sleep.  Heaven 
knows  what  next  would  have  come,  but  his  arm  was  arrested. 
Viola  had  thrown  herself  on  his  breast,  and  kissed  him,  with 
happy  eyes  that  smiled  through  her  sunny  hair.  At  that  very 
moment  the  door  opened — a message  from  the  Cardinal. 
Viola  must  go  to  his  Eminence  at  once.  Her  mother  went 
with  her.  All  was  reconciled  and  settled  ; Viola  had  her 
way,  and  selected  her  own  opera.  O ye  dull  nations  of  the 


23 


ZANONL 


.iorth,  with  your  broils  and  debates — your  bustling  lives  o{ 
the  Pnyx  and  the  Agora  ! — you  cannot  guess  what  a stir 
throughout  musical  Naples  was  occasioned  by  the  rumor  of 
a new  opera  and  a new  singer.  But  whose  the  opera.?  No 
cabinet  intrigue  ever  was  so  secret.  Pisani  came  back  one 
night  from  the  theatre,  evidently  disturbed  and,  irate.  Woe 
to  thine  ears  hadst  thou  heard  the  barbiton  that  night ! They 
had  suspended  him  from  his  office— they  feared  that  the  new 
opera,  and  the  first  debut  of  his  daughter  as  prim  a donna, 
would  be  too  much  for  his  nerves.  And  his  variations,  his 
diableria  of  sirens  and  harpies,  on  such  a night,  made  a 
hazard  not  to  be  contemplated  without  awe.  To  be  set  aside, 
and  on  the  very  night  that  his  child,  whose  melody  was  but 
an  emanation  of  his  own,  was  to  perform — set  aside  for 
some  new  rival — it  was  too  much  for  a musician’s  flesh  and 
blood.  For  the  first  time  he  spoke  in  words  upon  the  subject, 
and  gravely  asked — for  that  question  the  barbiton,  eloquent 
as  it  was,  could  not  express  distinctly — what  was  to  be  the 
opera,  and  what  the  part .?  And  Viola  as  gravely  answered 
that  she  was  pledged  to  the  Cardinal  not  to  reveal.  Pisani 
said  nothing,  but  disappeared  with  the  violin  ; and  presently 
they  heard  the  Familiar  from  the  house-top  (whither,  when 
thoroughly  out  of  humor,  the  Musician  sometimes  fled), 
whining  and  sighing  as  if  its  heart  were  broken. 

The  affections  of  Pisani  were  little  visible  on  the  surface. 
He  was  not  one  of  those  fond,  caressing  fathers  whose 
children  are  ever  playing  round  their  knees  ; his  mind  and 
soul  were  so  thoroughly  in  his  art,  that  domestic  life  glided 
by  him,  seemingly  as  if  that  were  a dream,  and  the  heart  the 
substantial  form  and  body  of  existence.  Persons  much 
cultivating  an  abstract  study  are  often  thus  ; mathematicians 
proverbially  so.  When  his  servant  ran  to  the  celebrated 
French  philosopher,  shrieking,  “ The  house  is  on  fire,  sir ! ” 
“ Go  and  tell  my  wife  then,  fool ! ” said  the  wise  man,  settling 
back  to  his  problems ; “ do  / ever  meddle  with  domestic 
affairs  ? ” But  what  are  mathematics  to  music, — music,  that 
not  only  composes  operas,  but  plays  on  the  barbiton  ? Do 
you  know  what  the  illustrious  Giardini  said  when  the  tyro 
asked  how  long  it  would  take  to  learn  to  play  on  the  violin  ? 
Hear,  and  despair,  ye  who  would  bend  the  bow  to  which  that 
of  Ulysses  was  a plaything— “ Twelve  hours  a day  for  twenty 
years  together  ! ” Can  a man,  then,  who  plays  the  barbiton 
be  always  playing  also  with  his  little  ones  .?  No,  Pisani ! often, 
with  the  keen  susceptibility  of  childhood,  poor  Viola  had 


ZANOm. 


y 

stolen  from  the  room  to  weep  at  the  thought  that  thou  didst 
not  love  her.  And  yet,  underneath  this  outward  abstraction 
of  the  artist,  the  natural  fondness  flowed  all  the  same  ; and 
as  she  grew  up,  the  dreamer  had  understood  the  dreamer. 
And  now.  shut  out  from  all  fame  himself— ^to  be  forbidden  to 
hail  ev€B  his  daughter’s  fame  ! — and  that  daughter  herself  to 
be  in  the  conspiracy  against  him  ! Sharper  than  the  serpent’s 
tooth  was  the  ingratitude,  and  sharper  than  the  serpent’s 
tooth  was  the  wail  of  the  pitying  barbiton  ! 

The  eventful  hour  is  come.  Viola  is  gone  to  the  theatre — 
her  mother  with  her.  The  indignant  musician  remains  at  home. 
Gionetta  bursts  into  the  room — my  Lord  Cardinal’s  carriage  is 
at  the  door — the  Padrone  is  sent  for.  He  must  lay  aside  his 
violin — he  must  put  on  his  brocade  coat  and  his  lace  ruffles. 
Here  they  are — quick,  quick  ! And  quick  rolls  the  gilded 
coach,  and  majestic  sits  the  driver,  and  statelily  prance  the 
steeds.  Poor  Pisani  is  lost  in  a mist  of  uncomfortable  amaze. 
He  arrives  at  the  theatre — he  descends  at  the  great  door — he 
turns  round  and  round,  and  looks  about  him  and  about — 
he  misses  something — Where  is  the  violin  ? Alas  ! his  soul, 
his  voice,  his  self  of  self,  is  left  behind  ! It  is  but  an  autom- 
aton that  the  lackeys  conduct  up  the  stairs,  through  the  tier, 
into  the  Cardinal’s  box.  But  then,  what  bursts  upon  him  ! — 
Does  he  dream  ? The  first  act  is  over  (they  did  not  send  for 
him  till  success  seemed  no  longer  doubtful),  the  first  act  has 
decided  all.  He  feels  that^  by  the  electric  sympathy  which 
even  the  one  heart  has  at  once  with  a vast  audience.  He 
feels  it  by  the  breathless  stillness  of  that  multitude — he  feels 
it  even  by  the  lifted  finger  of  the  Cardinal.  He  sees  his 
Viola  on  the  stage,  radiant  in  her  robes  and  gems — he  hears 
her  voice  thrilling  through  the  single  heart  of  the  thousands  ! 
But  the  scene — the  part — the  music  ! It  is  his  other  child — 
his  immortal  child— the  spirit-infant  of  his  soul — his  darling 
of  many  years  of  patient  obscurity  and  pining  genius — his 
master-piece — his  opera  of  the  Siren  ! 

This,  then,  was  the  mystery  that  had  so  galled  him — this 
the  cause  of  the  quarrel  with  the  Cardinal — this  the  secret  not 
to  be  proclaimed  till  the  success  was  won,  and  the  daughter 
had  united  her  father’s  triumph  with  her  own. 

And  there  she  stands,  as  all  souls  bow  before  her — fairer 
than  the  very  Siren  he  had  called  from  the  deeps  of  melody. 
Oh  ! long  and  sweet  recompense  of  toil ! Where  is  on  earth 
the  rapture  like  that  which  is  known  to  genius  when  at  last  it 
bursts  from  its  hidden  cavern  into  light  and  fame  ! 


32 


ZAA^Om. 


He  did  not  speak — he  did  not  move — he  stood  transfixed, 
breathless — the  tears  rolling  down  his  cheeks  : only  from  time 
to  time  his  hands  still  wandered  about — mechanically  they 
sought  for  the  faithful  instrument— why  was  it  not  there  to 
share  his  triumph  ? 

At  last  the  curtain  fell ; but  on  such  a storm — and  diapason 
of  applause  ! Up  rose  the  audience  as  one  man — as  with  one 
voice  that  dear  name  was  shouted.  She  came  on — trembling, 
pale — and  in  the  whole  crowd  saw  but  her  father’s  face.  The 
audience  followed  those  moistened  eyes — they  recognized 
with  a thrill  the  daughter’s  impulse  and  her  meaning.  The 
good  old  Cardinal  drew  him  gently  forward — Wild  musician ! 
thy  daughter  has  given  thee  back  more  than  the  life  thou 
gavest ! 

“ My  poor  violin  ! ” said  he,  wiping  his  eyes — “ they  will 
never  hiss  thee  again  now  ! ” 


CHAPTER  HI. 

Fra  sie  contrarie  tempre  in  ghiaccio  e in  foco, 

In  riso  e in  pianto,  e fra  paura  e speme 
L’ingannatrice  Donna — * 

Gerusal,  Lib.,  cant.  iv.  xciv. 

Now,  notwithstanding  the  triumph  both  of  the  singer  and 
the  opera,  there  had  been  one  moment  in  the  first  act,  and, 
consequently,  before  the  arrival  of  Pisani,  when  the  scale 
seemed  more  than  doubtful.  It  was  a chorus  replete  with  all 
the  peculiarities  of  the  composer.  And  when  this  Maelstrom 
of  Capricci  whirled  and  foamed,  and  tore  ear  and  sense 
through  every  variety  of  sound,  the  audience  simultaneously 
recognized  the  hand  of  Pisani.  A title  had  been  given  to  the 
opera,  which  had  hitherto  prevented  all  suspicion  of  its  parent- 
age ; and  the  overture  and  opening,  in  which  the  music  had 
been  regular  and  sweet,  had  led  the  audience  to  fancy  they 
detected  the  genius  of  their  favorite  Paisiello.  Long  accus- 
tomed to  ridicule  and  almost  to  despise  the  pretensions  of 
Pisani  as  a composer,  they  now  felt  as  if  they  had  been 
unduly  cheated  into  the  applause  with  which  they  had  hailed 
the  overture  and  the  commencing  scenas.  An  ominous  buzz 
circulated  round  the  house  ; — the  singers,  the  orchestra — 
electrically  sensitive  to  the  impression  of  the  audience — grew, 

* Between  such  contrarious  mixtures  of  ice  and  fire,  laughter  and  tears^-  -fear 
and  hope,  the  deceiving  dame — 


ZANONI. 


33 


themselves,  agitated  and  dismayed,  and  failed  in  the  energy 
and  precision  which  could  alone  carry  off  the  grotesqueness 
of  the  music. 

There  are  always  in  every  theatre  many  rivals  to  a new 
author  and  a new  performer — a party  impotent  while  all  goes 
well — but  a dangerous  ambush  the  instant  some  accident 
throws  into  confusion  the  march  of  success.  A hiss  arose  ; 
it  was  partial,  it  is  true,  but  the  significant  silence  of  all 
applause  seemed  to  forbode  the  coming  moment  when  the 
displeasure  would  grow  contagious.  It  was  the  breath  that 
stirred  the  impending  avalanche  At  that  critical  moment — ■ 
Viola,  the  Siren  queen,  emerged  for  the  first  time  from  her 
ocean  cave.  As  she  came  forward  to  the  lamps,  the  novelty 
of  her  situation,  the  chilling  apathy  of  the  audience — which 
even  the  sight  of  so  singular  a beauty  did  not  at  the  first 
arouse — the  whispers  of  the  malignant  singers  on  the  stage, 
the  glare  of  the  lights,  and  more — far  more  than  the  rest — 
that  recent  hiss,  which  had  reached  her  in  her  concealment, 
all  froze  up  her  faculties  and  suspended  her  voice.  And 
instead  of  the  invocation  into  which  she  ought  rapidily  to  have 
burst,  the  regal  Siren,  re-transformed  into  the  trembling  girl, 
stood  pale  and  mute  before  the  stern,  cold  array  of  those 
countless  eyes. 

At  that  instant,  and  when  consciousness  itself  seemed 
about  to  fail  her — as  she  turned  a timid  beseeching  glance 
around  the  still  multitude — she  perceived,  in  a box  near  the 
stage,  a countenance  which  at  once,  and  like  magic,  produced 
on  her  mind  an  effect  never  to  be  analyzed  nor  forgotten.  It 
was  one  that  awakened  an  indistinct,  haunting  reminiscence, 
as  if  she  had  seen  it  in  those  day-dreams  she  had 
been  so  wont  from  infancy  to  indulge.  She  could  not  with- 
draw her  gaze  from  that  face,  and  as  she  gazed,  the  awe  and 
coldness  that  had  before  seized  her,  vanished  like  a mist  from 
before  the  sun. 

In  the  dark  splendor  of  the  eyes  that  met  her  own,  there 
was  indeed  so  much  of  gentle  encouragement,  of  benign  and 
compassionate  admiration ; so  much  that  warmed,  and 
animated,  and  nerved ; that  any  one — actor  or  orator — who 
has  ever  observed  the  effect  that  a single  earnest,  and  kindly 
look,  in  the  crowd  that  is  to  be  addressed  and  won,  will 
produce  upon  his  mind,  may  readily  account  for  the  sudden 
and  inspiriting  influence  which  the  eye  and  smile  of  the 
stranger  exercised  on  the  dkbutante. 

And  while  yet  she  gazed,  and  the  glow  returned  to  her 


34 


ZANOm. 


heart,  the  stranger  half  rose,  as  if  to  recall  the  audience  to  a 
sense  of  the  courtesy  due  to  one  so  fair  and  young ; and  the 
instant  his  voice  gave  the  signal,  the  audience  followed  it  by 
a burst  of  generous  applause.  For  this  stranger  himself  was 
a marked  personage,  and  his  recent  arrival  at  Naples  had 
divided  with  the  new  opera  the  gossip  of  the  city.  And  then 
as  the  applause  ceased — clear,  full,  and  freed  from  every 
fetter — like  a spirit  from  the  clay — the  Siren’s  voice  poured^ 
forth  its  entrancing  music.  From  that  time,  Viola  forgot  the 
crowd,  the  hazard,  the  whole  world — except  the  fairy  one 
over  which  she  presided.  It  seemed  that  the  stranger’s 
presence  only  served  still  more  to  heighten  that  delusion,  in 
which  the  artist  sees  no  creation  within  the  circle  of  his  art ; 
she  felt  as  if  that  serene  brow,  and  those  brilliant  eyes, 
inspired  her  with  powers  never  known  before  : and,  as  if 
searching  for  a language  to  express  the  strange  sensations 
occasioned  by  his  presence,  that  presence  itself  whispered  to 
her  the  melody  and  the  song. 

Only  when  all  was  over,  and  she  saw  her  father  and  felt 
his  joy,  did  this  wild  spell  vanish  before  the  sweeter  one  of 
the  household  and  filial  love.  Yet  again,  as  she  turned  from 
the  stage,  she  looked  back  involuntarily,  and  the  stranger’s 
calm,  and  half-melancholy  smile  sunk  into  her  heart — to  live 
there — to  be  recalled  with  confused  memories,  half  of  pleasure 
and  half  of  pain. 

Pass  over  the  congratulations  of  the  good  Cardinal  Virtuoso, 
astonished  at  finding  himself  and  all  Naples  had  been  hitherto 
in  the  wrong  on  a subject  of  taste — still  more  astonished  at 
finding  himself  and  all  Naples  combining  to  confess  it ; pass 
over  the  whispered  ecstacies  of  admiration  which  buzzed  in 
the  singer’s  ear,  as  once  more,  in  her  modest  veil  and  quiet 
dress,  she  escaped  from  the  crowd  of  gallants  that  choked  up 
every  avenue  behind  the  scenes,  pass  over  the  sweet  embrace 
of  father  and  child,  returning  through  the  star-lit  streets  and 
along  the  deserted  Chiaj a in  the  Cardinal’s  carriage;  never 
pause  now  to  note  the  tears  and  ejaculations  of  the  good, 
simple-hearted  mother  . . . see  them  returned — see  the  well- 
known  rpom,  venimus  ad  larem  nostrum  * — see  old  Gionetta 
bustling  at  the  supper ; and  hear  Pisani,  as  he  rouses  the 
barbiton  from  its  case,  communicating  all  that  had  happened 
to  the  intelligent  Familiar ; hark  to  the  mother’s  merry,  low, 
English  laugh, — Why,  Viola,  strange  child,  sittest  thou  apart, 

^ We  come  to  our  own  house. 


ZANONI. 


35 


thy  face  leaning  on  thy  fair  hands,  thine  eyes  fixed  on  space  ? 
Up,  rouse  thee!  Every  dimple  on  the  cheek  of  home  must 
smile  to-night.  * , 

And  a happy  reunion  it  was  round  that  humble  table  ; a 
feast  Lucullus  might  have  envied  in  his  Hall  of  Apollo,  in 
the  dried  grapes,  and  the  dainty  sardines,  and  the  luxurious 
polenta,  and  the  old  lacrina,  a present  from  the  good  Car- 
dinal. The  barbiton,  placed  on  a chair — beside  the  musician, 
seemed  to  take  a part  in  the  festive  meal.  Its  honest, 
varnished  face  glowed  in  the  light  of  the  lamp  ; and  there 
was  an  impish,  sly  demureness  in  its  very  silence,  as  its 
master,  between  every  mouthful,  turned  to  talk  to  it  of 
something  he  had  forgotten  to  relate  before.  The  good  wife 
looked  on  affectionately,  and  could  not  eat  for  joy ; but 
suddenly  she  rose,  and  placed  on  the  artist’s  temples  a laurel 
wreath,  which  she  had  woven  beforehand  in  fond  anticipation  ; 
and  Viola,  on  the  other  side  her  brother,  the  barbiton, 
rearranged  the  chaplet,  and  smoothing  back  her  father’s  hair, 
whispered,  “ Caro  Padre,  you  will  not  let  him  scold  me 
again ! ” 

Then  poor  Pisani,  rather  distracted  between  the  two,  and 
excited  both  by  the  lacrina  and  his  triumph,  turned  to  the 
younger  child  with  so  naive  and  grotesque  a pride,  “ I don’t 
know  which  to  thank  the  most.  You  give  me  so  much  joy, 
child, — I am  so  proud  of  thee  and  myself.  But  he  and  I, 
poor  fellow,  have  been  so  often  unhappy  together  ! ” 

Viola’s  sleep  was  broken  ; — that  was  natural.  The  intoxi- 
cation of  vanity  and  triumph,  the  happiness  in  the  happiness 
she  had  caused,  all  this  was  better  than  sleep.  But  still  from 
all  this,  again  and  again  her  thoughts  flew  to  those  haunting 
eyes,  to  that  smile  with  which  for  ever  the  memory  of  the 
triumph,  of  the  happiness,  was  to  be  united.  Her  feelings, 
like  her  own  character,  were  strange  and  peculiar.  They 
were  not  those  of  a girl,  whose  heart,  for  the  first  time, 
reached  through  the  eye,  sighs  its  natural  and  native  language 
of  first  love.  It  was  not  so  much  admiration,  though  the 
face  that  reflected  itself  on  every  wave  of  her  restless  fancies 
was  of  the  rarest  order  of  majesty  and  beauty  ; nor  a pleased 
and  enamored  recollection  that  the  sight  of  this  stranger 
had  bequeathed  ; it  was  a human  sentiment  of  gratitude  and 
delight,  mixed  with  something  more  mysterious,  of  fear  and 
awe.  Certainly  she  had  seen  before  those  features  \ but 

* Ridete  qxiidquid  est  Domi  cachinnorum. 

Catull.  ad  Sirm.  Penin. 


36 


ZANOm. 


when  and  how  ? only  when  her  thoughts  had  sought  to  shape 
out  her  future,  and  when  in  spite  of  all  the  attempts  to  vision 
forth  a fate  of  flowers  and  sunshine,  a dark  and  chill 
foreboding  made  her  recall  back  into  her  deepest  self.  It 
was  a something  found  that  had  long  been  sought  for  by  a 
thousand  restless  yearnings  and  vague  desires,  less  of  the 
heart  than  mind ; not  as  when  youth  discovers  the  one  to  be 
beloved,  but  rather  as  when  the  student,  long  wandering 
after  the  clue  to  some  truth  in  science,  sees  it  glimmer  dimly 
before  him,  to  beckon,  to  recede,  to  allure,  and  to  wane  again. 
She  fell  at  last  into  unquiet  slumber,  vexed  by  deformed, 
fleeting,  shapeless  phantoms ; and,  waking,  as  the  sun, 
through  a veil  of  hazy  cloud,  glinted  with  a sickly  ray  across 
the  casement,  she  heard  her  father  settled  back  betimes  to 
his  one  pursuit,  and  calling  forth  from  his  Familiar  a low 
mournful  strain,  like  a dirge  over  the  dead. 

“ And  why,’'  she  asked,  when  she  descended  to  the  room 
below, — “ why,  my  father,  was  your  inspiration  so  sad,  after 
the  joy  of  last  night  ? ” 

“ I know  not,  child.  I meant  to  be  merry,  and  compose  an 
air  in  honor  of  thee , but  he  is  an  obstinate  fellow,  this, — and 
he  would  have  it  so.” 


CHAPTER  IV. 

E cosi  i pigri  e timidi  desirl 
Sprona.* 

Gerusal.  Lib.,  cant.  iv.  IxxxviiL 

It  was  the  custom  of  Pisani,  except  when  the  duties  of  his 
profession  made  special  demand  on  his  time,  to  devote  a 
certain  portion  of  the  mid-day  to  sleep ; a habit  not  so  much 
a luxury  as  a necessity,  to  a man  who  slept  very  little  during 
the  night.  In  fact,  whether  to  compose  or  to  practise,  the 
hours  of  noon  wei  e precisely  those  in  which  Pisani  could  not 
have  been  active  if  he  would.  His  genius  resembled  those 
fountains  full  at  dawn  and  evening,  overflowing  at  night,  and 
perfectly  dry  at  the  meridian.  During  this  time,  consecrated 
by  her  husband  to  repose,  the  Signora  generally  stole  out  to 
make  the  purchases  necessary  for  the  little  household,  or  to 
enjoy,  as  what  woman  does  not,  a little  relaxation  in  gossiy 
with  some  of  her  own  sex.  And  the  day  following  this  bril 

• And  *'hup  the  slow  and  timid  passions  urged. 


ZANOm. 


57 


liant  triumph,  how  many  congratulations  would  she  have  to 
receive  ! 

At  these  times  it  was  Viola’s  habit  to  seat  herself  without 
the  door  of  the  house,  under  an  awning  which  sheltered  from 
the  sun,  without  obstructing  the  view  ; and  there  now,  with 
the  prompt-book  on  her  knee,  on  which  her  eye  roves  listlessly 
from  time  to  time,  you  may  behold  her,  the  vine-leaves  cluster- 
ing from  their  arching  trellis  over  the  door  behind,  and  the 
lazy  white-sailed  boats  skimming  along  the  sea  that  stretched 
before. 

As  she  thus  sat,  rather  in  reverie  than  thought,  a man 
coming  from  the  direction  of  Pisilipo,  with  a slow  step  and 
downcast  eyes,  passed  close  by  the  house,  and  Viola  looking 
up  abruptly,  started  in  a kind  of  terror  as  she  recognized  the 
stranger.  She  uttered  an  involuntary  exclamation,  and  the 
cavalier  turning,  saw,  and  paused. 

He  stood  a moment  or  two  between  her  and  the  sunlit 
ocean,  contemplating  in  a silence  too  serious  and  gentle  for 
the  boldness  of  gallantry,  the  blushing  face  and  the  young 
slight  form  before  him  : at  length  he  spoke. 

“ Are  you  happy,  my  child,”  he  said,  in  almost  a paternal 
tone,  “ at  the  career  that  lies  before  you } From  sixteen  to 
thirty,  the  music  in  the  breath  of  applause  is  sweeter  than  all 
the  music  your  voice  can  utter ! ” 

“ I know  not,”  replied  Viola,  falteringly,  but  encouraged  by 
the  liquid  softness  of  the  accents  that  addressed  her — “ I 
know  not  whether  I am  happy  now,  but  I was  last  night.  And 
I feel,  too,  ExceLency,  that  I have  you  to  thank,  though, 
perhaps,  you  scarce  know  why  ! ” 

“ You  deceive  yourself,”  said  the  cavalier  with  a smile.  “ I 
am  aware  that  I assisted  to  your  merited  success,  and  it  is 
you  who  scarce  know  how.  The  why  I will  tell  you  : because 
I saw  in  your  heart  a nobler  ambition  than  that  of  the 
woman’s , vanity  ; it  was  the  daughter  that  interested  me. 
Perhaps  you  would  rather  I should  have  admired  the  singer  ? ” 

“ No ; oh,  no  ! ” 

“Well,  I believe  you.  And  now,  since  we  have  thus  met, 
I will  pause  to  counsel  you.  When  next  you  go  to  the  theatre, 
you  will  have  at  your  feet  all  the  young  gallants  of  Naples. 
Poor  infant ! the  flame  that  dazzles  the  eye  can  scorch  the 
wing.  Remember  that  the  only  homage  tliat  does  not  sully, 
must  be  that  which  these  gallants  will  not  give  thee. 
And  whatever  thy  dreams  of  the  future — and  I see,  while  I 


38 


ZANONL 


speak  to  thee,  how  wandering  they  are,  and  wild — may  onl]^ 
those  be  fulfilled  which  centre  round  the  hearth  of  home  ! ” 

He  paused,  as  Viola’s  breast  heaved  beneath  its  robe. 
And  with  a burst  of  natural  and  innocent  emotions,  scarcely 
comprehending,  though  an  Italian,  the  grave  nature  of  his 
advice,  she  exclaimed — 

“ Ah,  Excellency,  you  cannot  know  how  dear  to  me  that 
home  is  already.  And  my  father — there  would  be  no  home^ 
Sgnor,  without  him  ! ” 

A deep  and  melancholy  shade  settled  over  the  face  of  the 
cavalier.  He  looked  up  at  the  quiet  house  buried  amidst  the 
vine-leaves,  and  turned  again  to  the  vivid,  animated  face  of 
the  young  actress. 

“ It  is  well,”  said  he.  “ A simple  heart  may  be  its  own 
best  guide,  and  so,  go  on,  and  prosper.  Adieu,  fair  singer.” 

“ Adieu,  Excellency ; but,” — and  something  she  could  no^ 
resist — an  anxious,  sickening  feeling  of  fear  and  hope—'', 
impelled  her  to  the  question,  “ I shall  see  you  again,  shall  I 
not,  at  San  Carlo  ? ” 

“ Not,  at  least,  for  some  time.  I leave  Naples  to-day.” 

“ Indeed  ! ” and  Viola’s  heart  sunk  within  her  : the  poetry 
of  the  stage  was  gone. 

“ And,”  said  the  cavalier,  turning  back,  and  gently  laying 
his  hand  on  hers — “ and  perhaps,  before  Ave  meet,  you  may 
have  suffered  ; — known  the  first  sharp  griefs  of  human  life  ; 
— ^known  how  little  what  fame  can  gain,  repays  what  the 
heart  can  lose  ; but  be  brave  and  yield  not — not  even  to  what 
may  seem  the  piety  of  sorrow.  Observe  yon  tree  in  your 
neighbor’s  garden.  Look  how  it  grows  up,  crooked  and  dis- 
torted. Some  wind  scattered  the  germ,  from  which  it  sprung, 
in  the  clefts  of  the  rock  ; choked  up  and  walled  round  by 
crags  and  buildings,  by  nature  and  man,  its  life  has  been  one 
struggle  for  the  light ; — light  which  makes  to  that  life,  the 
necessity  and  the  principle  : you  see  how  it  has  writhed  and 
twisted — how,  meeting  the  barrier  in  one  spot,  it  has  labored 
and  worked,  stem  and  branches,  towards  the  clear  skies  at 
last.  What  has  preserved  it  through  each  disfavor  of  birth 
and  circumstances — why  are  its  leaves  as  green  and  fair  as 
those  of  the  vine  behind  you,  which,  with  all  its  arms,  can 
embrace  the  open  sunshine  ? My  child,  because  of  the  very 
instinct  that  impelled  the  struggle— because  the  labor  for  the 
light  won  to  the  light  at  length.  So  with  a gallant  heart, 
through  every  adverse  accident  of  sorrow,  and  of  fate,  to  turn 
to  the  sun,  to  strive  for  th^  Z eaven  ; this  it  is  that  gives 


ZANONI. 


39 

knowledge  to  the  strong,  and  happiness  to  the  weak.  Ere  we 
meet  again,  you  will  turn  sad  and  heavy  eyes  to  those  quiet 
boughs,  and  when  you  hear  the  birds  sing  from  them,  and 
see  the  sunshine  come  aslant  from  crag  and  house-top  to  be 
the  playfellow  of  their  leaves,  learn  the  lesson  that  Nature 
teaches  you,  and  strive  through  darkness  to  the  light ! ” 

As  he  spoke  he  moved  on  slowly,  and  left  Viola  won- 
dering— silent — saddened  with  his  dim  prophecy  of  coming 
evil,  and  yet,  through  sadness,  charmed.  Involuntarily  her 
eyes  followed  him — involuntarily  she  stretched  forth  her  arms, 
as  if  by  gesture  to  call  him  back ; she  would  have  given 
worlds  to  have  seen  him  turn — to  have  heard  once  more  his 
low,  calm,  silvery  voice, — to  have  felt  again  the  light  touch 
of  his  hand  on  hers.  As  moonlight  that  softens  into  beauty 
every  angle  on  which  it  falls,  seemed  his  presence, — as  moon- 
light vanishes,  and  things  assume  their  common  aspect  of  the 
rugged  and  the  mean — he  receded  from  her  eyes, — and  the 
outward  scene  was  commonplace  once  more. 

The  stranger  passed  on,  through  that  long  and  lovely  road 
which  reaches  at  last  the  palaces  that  face  the  public  gar- 
dens, and  conducts  to  the  more  populous  quarters  of  the 
city. 

A group  of  young,  dissipated  courtiers,  loitering  by  the 
gateway  of  a house  which  was  open  for  the  favorite  pastime 
of  the  day — the  resort  of  the  wealthier  and  more  high-born 
gamesters — made  way  for  him,  as  with  a courteous  inclination 
he  passed  them  by. 

“ Per  fede^^'  said  one,  “ is  not  that  the  rich  Zanoni,  of  whom 
the  town  talks  ? ” 

“ Ay — they  say  his  wealth  is  incalculable  ! ” 

'•'‘They  say — who.  are  they'i — what  is  the  authority?  He 
has  not  been  many  days  at  Naples,  and  I cannot  yet  find  any 
one  knows  aught  of  his  birth-place,  his  parentage,  or,  what  is 
more  important,  his  estates  ! ” 

“ That  is  true ; but  he  arrived  in  a goodly  vessel,  which 
they  say  is  his  own.  See — no,  you  cannot  see  it  here, — but 
it  rides  yonder  in  the  bay.  The  bankers  he  deals  with, 
speak  with  awe  of  the  sums  placed  in  their  hands.” 

“ Whence  came  he  ? ” 

“ From  some  sea-port  in  the  East.  My  valet  learned  from 
some  of  the  sailors  on  the  Mole  that  he  had  resided  many 
years  in  the  interior  of  India.” 

“ Ah,  I am  told  that  in  India  men  pick  up  gold  like  pebbles, 
and  that  there  are  valleys  where  the  birds  build  their  nests 


40 


ZANOm. 


with  emeralds  to  attract  the  moths.  Here  comes  our  prince 
of  gamesters,  Cetoxa;  be  sure  that  he  already  must  have 
made  acquaintance  with  so  wealthy  a cavalier ; he  has  that 
attraction  to  gold  which  the  magnet  has  to  steel.  Well, 
Cetoxa,  what  fresh  news  of  the  ducats  of  Signor  Zanoni  ? ” 

“ Oh,”  said  Cetoxa,  carelessly,  “ my  friend— — ” 

“ Ha  ! ha  ! hear  him — his  friend ” 

“Yes;  my  friend  Zanoni  is  going  to  Rome  for  a short 
time ; when  he  returns,  he  has  promised  me  to  fix  a day  to 
sup  with  me,  and  I will  then  introduce  him  to  you,  and  to  the 
best  society  of  Naples  ! Diavolo  ! but  he  is  a most  agreeable 
and  witty  gentleman  1 ” 

“ Pray  tell  us  how  you  came  so  suddenly  to  be  his  friend.” 
“ My  dear  Belgioso,  nothing  more  natural.  He  desired  a 
box  at  San  Carlo  ; but  I need  not  tell  you  that  the  expecta- 
tion of  a new  opera  (ah,  how  superb  it  is, — that  poor  devil, 
Pisani — who  would  have  thought  it  1)  and  a new  singer — 
(what  a face — what  a voice  ! — ah  !)  had  engaged  every  corner 
of  the  house.  I. heard  of  Zanoni’s  desire  to  honor  the  talent 
of  Naples,  and,  with  my  usual  courtesy  to  distinguished 
strangers,  I sent  to  place  my  box  at  his  disposal.  He  ac- 
cepts it, — I wait  on  him  between  the  acts, — he  is  most  charm, 
ing, — he  invites  me  to  supper. — Cospetto,  what  a retinue ! 
We  sit  late, — I tell  him  all  the  news  of  Naples, — we  grow 
bosom  friends, — he  presses  on  me  this  diamond  before  we 
part, — it  is  a trifle,  he  tells  me, — the  jewellers  value  it  at 
5000  pistoles ! — the  merriest  evening  I have  passed  these  ten 
years.” 

The  cavaliers  crowded  round  to  admire  the  diamond. 

“ Signor  Count  Cetoxa,”  said  one  grave-looking  sombr*. 
man,  who  had  crossed  himself  two  or  three  times  during  the 
Neapolitan’s  narrative,  “are  you  not  aware  of  the  strange  re 
ports  about  this  person ; and  are  you  not  afraid  to  receive 
from  him  a gift  which  may  carry  with  it  the  most  fatal  conse 
quences  ? Do  you  not  know  that  he  is  said  to  be  a sorc<^rer 

— to  possess  the  mal-occhio — to ” 

“ Prithee,  spare  us  your  antiquated  superstitions,”  inter- 
rupted Cetoxa,  contemptuously.  “ They  are  out  of  fashion : 
nothing  now  goes  down  but  skepticism  and  philosophy.  And 
what,  after  all,  do  these  rumors,  when  sifted,  amount  to  ? 
They  have  no  origin  but  this — a silly  old  man  of  eighty-six, 
quite  in  his  dotage,  solemnly  avers  that  he  saw  this  same 
Zanoni  seventy  years  ago — he  himself,  the  narrator,  than  a 


ZANONL 


41 


mere  boy) — at  Milan.  When  this  very  Zanoni,  as  you  all  see^ 
is  at  least  as  young  as  you  or  I,  Belgioso.” 

“ But  that,”  said  the  grave  gentleman,  “ that  is  the  mystery. 
Old  Avelli  declares. that  Zanoni  does  not  seem  a day  older 
than  when  they  met  at  Milan.  He  says  that  even  then  at 
Milan — mark  this — where,  though  under  another  name,  this 
Zanoni  appeared  in  the  same  splendor,  he  was  attended  also 
by  the  same  mystery.  And  that  an  . old  man  there  remembered 
to  have  seen  him  sixty  years  before,  in  Sweden.” 

“ Tush,”  returned  Cetoxa,  “ the  same  thing  has  been  said 
of  the  quack  Gagliostro — mere  fables.  I will  believe  them 
when  I see  this  diamond  turn  to  a wisp  of  hay.  For  the  rest  ” 
(he  added  gravely)  “ I consider  this  illustrious  gentleman 
my  friend  ; and  a whisper  against  his  honor  and  repute  will, 
in  future,  be  equivalent  to  an  affront  to  myself.” 

Cetoxa  was  a redoubted  swordsman,  and  excelled  in  a pe- 
culiarly awkward  manoeuvre,  which  he  himself  had  added  to 
the  variation  of  the  stoccata.  The  grave  gentleman,  however 
anxious  for  the  spiritual  weal  of  the  Count,  had  an  equal  re- 
gard for  his  own  corporeal  safety.  He  contented  himsell 
with  a look  of  compassion,  and,  turning  through  the  gateway, 
ascended  the  stairs  to  the  gaming-tables. 

“ Ha,  ha  ! ” said  Cetoxa,  laughing,  “ our  good  Loredano  is 
envious  of  my  diamond.  Gentlemen,  you  sup  with  me  to- 
night. I assure  you  I never  met  a more  delightful,  sociable, 
entertaining  person — than  my  dear  friend  the  Signor  Zanoni.” 


CHAPTER  V. 

Quello  Ippogifo,  grande  e strano  augello 
Lo  porta  via.* 

And  now,  accompanying  this  mysterious  Zanoni,  am  I 
compelled  to  bid  a short  farewell  to  Naples.  Mount  behind 
me — mount  on  my  hippogriff,  reader — settle  yourself  at  your 
ease.  I bought  the  pillion  the  other  day  of  a poet  who  loves 
his  comfort ; it  has  been  newly  stuffed  for  your  special  ac- 
commodation. So,  so,  we  ascend ! Look  as  we  ride  aloft — 
look  ! — never  fear,  hippogriffs  never  stumble  ; and  every  hip- 
pogriff in  Italy  is  warranted  to  carry  elderly  gentlemen — look 

• That  hippogriif,  great  and  marvellous  bird,  bears  him  away. 

Fur.,  g.  vi. 


I 


42 


ZANONI. 


down  on  the  gliding  landscapes  ! There,  near  the  ruins  of 
the  Oscan’s  old  Atella,  rises  Aversa,  once  the  stronghold  of 
the  Norman ; there  gleam  the  columns  of  Capua,  above  the 
Vulturnian  Stream.  Hail  to  ye,  corn-fields  and  vineyards 
famous  for  the  old  Falernian ! Hail  to  ye,  golden  orange- 
groves  of  Mola  di  Gaeta  ! — Hail  ye,  sweet  shrubs  and  wild 
flowers,  omnis  copia  narium^  that  clothe  the  mountain  skirts  of 
the  silent  Lautulae  ! Shall  we  rest  at  the  Volscian  Anxur — 
the  modern  Terracina — where  the  lofty  roCk  stands  like  the 
giant  that  guards  the  last  borders  of  the  southern  land  of 
Love  ? Away,  away  ! and  hold  your  breath  as  we  flit  above 
the  Pontine  Marshes.  Dreary  and  desolate,  their  miasma  is 
to  the  gardens  we  have  passed  what  the  rank  commonplace 
of  life  is  to  the  heart  when  it  has  left  love  behind.  Mourn- 
ful Campagna,  thou  openest  on  us  in  majestic  sadness. 
Rome,  seven-hilled  Rome  ! receive  us  as  Memory  receives 
the  wayworn ; receive  us  in  silence,  amidst  ruins  ! Where  is 
the  traveler  we  pursue  ? Turn  the  hippogriff  loose  to  graze  : 
he  loves  the  acanthus  that  wreathe  around  yon  broken  col 
umns.  Yes,  that  is  the  Arch  of  Titus,  the  conqueror  of  Jeru- 
salem,— that  the  Colosseum  ! Through  one  passed  the  tri- 
umph of  the  deified  invader — in  one  fell  the  butchered  gladia- 
tors. Monuments  of  murder,  how  poor  the  thoughts,  how 
mean  the  memories  ye  awaken,  compared  with  those  that 
speak  to  the  heart  of  man  on  the  heights  of  Phyle,  or  by  thy 
lone  mound,  grey  Marathon  ! We  stand  amidst  weeds,  and 
brambles,  and  long  waving  herbage.  Where  we  stand  reigned 
Nero — here  were  his  tesselated  floors;  here 

“ Mighty  in  the  Heaven,  a second  Heaven,” 

hung  the  vault  of  his  ivory  roofs — here,  arch  upon  arch,  pillar 
upon  pillar,  glittered  to  the  world  the  golden  palace  of  its 
master — the  Golden  House  of  Nero.  How  the  lizard  watches 
us  with  his  timorous  eye ! We  disturb  his  rei^n.  Gather 
that  wild  flower : the  Golden  house  is  vanished — but  the  wild 
flower  may  have  kin,  to  those  which  the  stranger’s  hand  scat- 
tered over  the  tyrant’s  grave ; — see,  over  this  soil,  the  gravQ 
of  Rome,  Nature  strews  the  wild  flowers  still ! 

In  the  midst  of  this  desolation  is  an  old  building  of  the 
middle  ages.  Here  dwells  a singular  Recluse.  In  the  sea- 
son of  the  malaria,  the  native  peasant  flies  the  rank  vegeta- 
tion round ; but  he,  a stranger  and  a foreigner,  breathes  in 
safety  the  pestilential  air.  He  has  no  friends,  no  associates, 
no  companions,  except  books  and  instruments  of  scienq^ 


ZANONI. 


43 


He  is  often  seen  wandering  over  the  grass-grown  hills,  or 
sauntering  through  the  streets  of  the  new  city,  not  with  the 
absent  brow  and  incurious  air  of  students,  but  with  observant, 
piercing  eyes,  that  seem  to  dive  into  the  hearts  of  the  passer- 
by. An  old  man,  but  not  infirm — erect  and  stately,  as  if  in 
his  prime.  None  know  whether  he  be  rich  or  poor.  He 
asks  no  charity,  and  he  gives  none — he  does  no  evil,  and 
seems  to  confer  no  good.  He  is  a man  who  appears  to  have 
no  world  beyond  himself ; but  appearances  are  deceitful ; and 
Science,  as  well  as  Benevolence,  lives  in  the  Universe.  This 
abode,  for  the  first  time  since  thus  occupied,  a visitor  enters. 
It  is  Zanoni. 

You  observe  those  two  men  seated  together,  conversing 
earnestly.  Years  long  have  flown  away  since  they  met  last 
— at  least,  bodily,  and  face  to  face.  But  if  they  are  sages, 
thought  can  meet  thought,  and  spirit  spirit,  though  oceans  di- 
vide the  forms.  Death  itself  divides  not  the  wise.  Thou 
meetest  Plato  when  thine  eyes  moisten  over  the  Phaedo. 
May  Homer  live  with  all  men  forever  1 

They  converse — they  confess  to  each  other — they  conjure 
up  the  past,  and  re-people  it ; but  note  how  differently  do 
such  remembrances  affect  the  two.  On  Zanoni’s  face,  de- 
spite its  habitual  calm,  the  emotions  change  and  go.  AT^has 
acted  in  the  past  he  surveys ; but  not  a trace  of  the  humanity 
that  participates  in  joy  and  sorrow  can  be  detected  on  the 
passionless  visage  of  his  companion ; the  Past,  to  him,  as  is 
now  the  Present,  has  been  but  as  nature  to  the  sage,  the 
volume  to  the  student — -a  calm  and  spiritual  life — a study — a 
contemplation. 

From  the  Past,  they  turn  to  the  Future.  Ah  ! at  the  close 
of  the  last  century,  the  Future  seemed  a thing  tangible — it 
was  woven  up  in  all  men’s  fears  and  hopes  of  the  Present. 

At  the  verge  of  that  hundred  years,  Man,  the  ripest  born 
of  Time,*  stood  as  at  the  death-bed  of  the  Old  World,  and 
beheld  the  New  Orb,  blood-red  amidst  cloud  and  vapor, — 
uncertain  if  a comet  or  a sun.  Behold  the  icy  and  profound 
disdain  on  the  brow  of  the  old  man — the  lofty  yet  touching 
sadness  that  darkens  the  glorious  countenance  of  Zanoni.  Is 
it  that  one  views  with  contempt  the  struggle  and  its  issue,  and 
the  other  with  awe  or  pity?  Wisdom  contemplating  man- 
kind leads  but  to  the  two  results — compassion  or  disdain, 

* An  des  Jahrhunderts  Neige, 
reifste  Sohn  der  Zeit. 

Kunstl^e. 


44 


ZANONI. 


He  who  believes  in  other  worlds  can  accustom  himself  to 
look  on  this  as  the  naturalist  on  the  revolutions  of  an  ant- 
hill,  or  of  a leaf.  What  is  the  Earth  to  Infinity — what  its 
duration  to  the  Eternal  ? Oh,  how  much  greater  is  the  soul 
of  one  man  than  the  vicissitudes  of  the  whole  globe  ! Child 
of  heaven,  and  heir  of  Immortality,  how  far  from  one  star 
hereafter  wilt  thou  look  back  on  the  ant-hill  and  its  commo- 
tions, from  Clovis  to  Robespierre,  from  Noah  to  the  Final 
Fire.  The  spirit  that  can  contemplate,  that  lives  only  in  the 
intellect,  can  ascend  to  its  star,  even  from  the  midst  of  the 
Burial-ground  called  Earth,  and  while  the  sarcophagus  called 
Life  immures  in  its  clay  the  Everlasting  ! 

But  thou,  Zanoni — thou  hast  refused  to  live  07ily  in  the  in- 
tellect— thou  hast  not  mortified  the  heart — thy  pulse  still 
beats  with  the  sweet  music  of  mortal  passion — thy  kind  is  to 
thee  sfill  something  warmer  than  an  abstraction — thou  wouldst 
look  upon  this  Revolution  in  its  cradle,  which  the  storms  rock 
— thou  wouldst  see  the  world  while  its  elements  yet  struggle 
through  the  chaos ! 

Go  I 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Precepteurs  ignorans  de  ce  faible  univers.* 

Voltaire. 

Nous  6tions  h.  table  chez  un  de  nos  confreres  k I’Academie,  Grand  Seigneur  et 
homme  d’esprit.! — La  Harpe. 

One  evening,  at  Paris,  several  months  after  the  date  of  our 
last  chapter,  there  was  a reunion  of  some  of  the  most  emi- 
nent wits  of  the  time,  at  the  house  of  a personage  distin- 
guished alike  by  noble  birth  and  liberal  accomplishments. 
Nearly  all  present  were  of  the  views  that  were  then  the  mode. 
For,  as  came  afterwards  a time  when  nothing  was  so  unpopu- 
lar as  the  people,  so  that  was  the  time  when  nothing  was  so 
vulgar  as  aristocracy.  The  airiest  fine  gentleman  and  the 
haughtiest  noble  prated  of  equality,  and  lisped  enlighten- 
ment. 

Among  the  more  remarkable  guests  were  Condorcet,  then 

* Ignorant  teachers  of  this  weak  world 

t We  supped  with  one  of  our  confreres  of  the  Academy;  a great  nobleman 
and  witj  • - 


ZANONI. 


45 


in  the  prime  of  his  reputation,  the  correspondent  of  the  king 
of  Prussia,  the  intimate  of  Voltaire,  the  member  of  half  the 
academies  of  Europe — noble  by  birth,  23olished  in  manners,  re- 
publican in  opinions.  There,  too,  was  the  venerable  Male- 
sherbes,  “I’amour  et  les  ddlices  de  la  Nation.”*  There  Jean 
Silvain  Bailly,  the  accomplished  scholar — the  aspiring  politi- 
cian. It  was  one  of  those  petits  soupers  for  which  the  capital 
of  all  social  pleasures  was  so  renowned.  The  conversation, 
as  might  be  expected,  was  literary  and  intellectual,  enlivened 
by  graceful  pleasantry.  Many  of  the  ladies  of  that  ancient 
and  proud  noblesse — for  the  noblesse  yet  existed,  though  its 
hours  were  already  numbered — added  to  the  charm  of  the  so- 
ciety ; and  theirs  were  the  boldest  criticisms,  and  often  the 
most  liberal  sentiments. 

Vain  labor  for  me — vain  labor  almost  for  the  grave  English 
language,  to  do  justice  to  the  sparkling  paradoxes  that  flew 
from  lip  to  lip.  The  favorite  theme  was  the  superiority  of 
the  Moderns  to  the  Ancients.  Condorcet  on  this  head  was 
eloquent,  and  to  some,  at  least,  of  his  audience,  most  con- 
vincing. That  Voltaire  was  greater  than  Homer,  few  there 
were  disposed  to  deny.  Keen  was  the  ridicule  lavished  on 
the  dull  pedantry  which  finds  everything  ancient  necessarily 
sublime. 

“Yet,’’  said  the  graceful  marquis  de , as  the  cham- 

pagne danced  to  his  glass,  “ more  ridiculous  still  is  the  super- 
stition that  finds  everything  incomprehensible  holy ! But 
intelligence  circulates,  Condorcet ; like  water,  it  finds  its 
level.  My  hairdresser  said  to  me  this  morning,  ‘ Though 
I am  but  a poor  fellow,  I believe  as  little  as  the  finest  gentle- 
man ! ’ ” 

“ Unquestionably,  the  great  revolution  draws  near  to  its 
final  completion — cl  pas  de  geant^  as  Montesquieu  said  of  his 
own  immortal  work.” 

Then  there  rushed  from  all — wit  and  noble,  courtier  and 
republican — a confused  chorus,  harmonious  only  in  its  anticb 
pation  of  the  brilliant  things  to  which  “ the  great  Revolu- 
tion ” was  to  give  birth.  Here  Condorcet  is  more  eloquent 
than  before. 

“ II  faut  absolument  que  la  Superstition  et  le  Fanatisme 
fassent  place  k la  philosophie.t  Kings  persecute  persons, 

* The  idol  and  delight  of  the  nation  (so  called  by  his  historian  Gaillard.) 

t It  must  necessarily  happen  that  superstition  and  fanaticism  give  place  ts 
philosophy. 


46 


ZANONI. 


priests  opinion.  Without  kings,  men  must  be  safe  ; an  with* 
out  priests,  minds  must  be  free.” 

“ Ah,”  murmured  the  marquis,  “ and  as  ce  cher  Diderot  has 
so  well  sung — 

“ ‘ Et  des  boyaux  du  dernier  pretre 
Serrez  le  cou  du  dernier  roi.’ 

\ 

“ And  then,”  resumed  Condorcet — “ then  commences  the 
Age  of  Reason  ! — equality  in  instruction — equality  in  insti- 
tutions— equality  in  wealth ! The  great  impediments  to 
knowledge  are,  first,  the  want  of  a common  language ; and 
next,  the  short  duration  of  existence.  But  as  to  the  first, 
when  all  men  are  brothers,  why  not  an  universal  language  ? 
As  to  the  second,  the  organic  petfectibility  of  the  vegetable 
world  is  undisputed:  is  Nature  less  powerful  in  the  nobler 
existence  of  thinking  man  ? The  very  destruction  of  the  two 
most  active  causes  of  physical  deterioration — here,  luxurious 
wealth, — there,  abject  penury — must  necessarily  prolong  the 
general  term  of  life.t  The  art  of  medicine  will  then  be  hon- 
ored in  the  place  of  war,  which  is  the  art  of  murder : the 
noblest  study  of  the  acutest  minds  will  be  devoted  to  the 
discovery  and  arrest  of  the  causes  of  disease.  Life,  I grant, 
cannot  be  made  eternal ; but  it  may  be  prolonged  almost  in- 
definitely. And  as  the  meaner  animal  bequeathes  its  vigor 
to  its  offspring,  so  man  shall  transmit  his  improved  organiza- 
tion, mental  and  physical  to  his  sons.  O yes,  to  such  a con- 
summation does  our  age  approach  ! ” 

The  venerable  Malesherbes  sighed.  Perhaps  he  feared  the 
consummation  might  not  come  in  time  for  him.  The  hand- 
some marquis  de and  the  ladies,  yet  handsomer  than  he, 

looked  conviction  and  delight. 

But  two  men  there  were,  seated  next  to  each  other,  who 
joined  not  in  the  general  talk ; the  one  a stranger  newly  ar- 
rived in  Paris,  where  his  wealth,  his  person,  and  his  accom- 
plishments, had  already  made  him  remarked  and  courted ; 
the  other,  an  old  man,  somewhere  about  seventy — the  witty 
and  virtuous,  brave  and  still  light-hearted  Cazotte,  the  author 
of  Ze  Diable  Amoureux. 

These  two  conversed  familiarly,  and  apart  from  the  rest, 

* And  throttle  the  neck  of  the  last  king,  with  a string  from  the  bowels  of  the 
last  priest. 

t See  Condorc^t’s  posthumous  worlc  - '^••ogress  of  the  Human  Min4— 


ZANONI. 


47 


and  only  by  an  occasional  smile  testified  their  attention  to  the 
general  conversation. 

“ Yes,”  said  the  stranger — “ yes,  we  have  met  before.” 

“ I thought  I could  not  forget  your  countenance  ; yet  I 
task  in  vain  my  recollections  of  the  past.” 

“ I will  assist  you.  Recall  the  time  when,  led  by  curiosity, 
or  perhaps  the  nobler  desire  of  knowledge,  you  sought  initia- 
xion  into  the  mysterious  order  of  Martines  de  Pasquales.”* 
Ah  ! is  it  possible  ! You  are  one  of  that  theurgic  brother- 
hood ? ” 

“ Nay,  I attended  their  ceremonies  but  to  see  how  vainly 
they  sought  to  revive  the  ancient  marvels  of  the  cabala.” 

“ Such  studies  please  you  ? I have  shaken  off  the  influence 
they  once  had  on  my  own  imagination.” 

“ You  have  not  shaken  it  off,”  returned  the  stranger  gravely  ; 
“ it  is  on  you  still — on  you  at  this  hour ; it  beats  in  your 
heart ; it  kindles  in  your  reason  ; it  will  speak  in  your 
tongue  ! ” 

And  then  with  a yet  lower  voice,  the  stranger  continued  to 
address  him,  to  remind  him  of  certain  ceremonies  and  doc- 
trines,— to  explain  and  enforce  them  by  references  to  the 
actual  experience  and  history  of  his  listener,  which  Cazotte 
thrilled  to  find  so  familiar  to  a stranger. 

Gradually  the  old  man’s  pleasing  and  benevolent  coun- 
tenance grew  overcast,  and  he  turned,  from  time  to  time, 
searching,  curious,  uneasy  glances,  towards  his  companion. 

The  charming  duchess  de  G archly  pointed  out  to  the 

lively  guests  the  abstracted  air  and  clouded  brow  of  the  poet ; 
and  Cordorcet  who  liked  no  one  else  to  be  remarked  when  he 
himself  was  present,  said  to  Cazotte,  “ Well,  and  what  do 

It  is  so  recorded  of  Cazotte.  Of  Martines  de  Pasqualis  little  is  known  ; even  the 
country  to  which  he  belonged  is  matter  of  conjecture.  Equally  so  the  rites,  cer- 
emonies, and  nature  of  the  cabalistic  order  he  established.  St.  Martin  was  a dis- 
ciple of  the  school,  and  that,  at  least,  is  in  its  favor  ; for  in  spite  of  his  mysticism, 
no  man  more  beneficent,  generous,  pure,  and  virtuous,  than  St.  Martin,  adorned  the 
last  century.  Above  all,  no  man  more  distinguished  himself  from  the  herd  oi 
skeptical  philosophers  by  the  gallantry  and  fervor  with  which  he  combated  material- 
ism, and  vindicated  the  necessity  of  faith  amidst  a chaos  of  unbelief.  It  may  also 
be  observed,  that  Cazotte,  whatever  else  he  learned  of  the  brotherhood  of  Martines, 
learned  nothing  that  diminished  the  excellence  of  his  life  and  the  sincerity  of  his 
religion.  At  once  gentle  and  brave,  he  never  ceased  to  oppose  the  excesses  of  the 
Revolution.  To  the  last,  unlike  the  Liberals  of  time,  he  was  a devout  and  sincere 
Christian.  Before  his  execution,  he  demanded  a pen  and  paper,  to  write  these 
words: — “ Ma  femme,  mes  enfans,  ne  me  pleurez  pas ; ne  m’oubliez  pas  mais 
souvenez-vous  surtout  de  ne  jamais  offenser  Dieu(rt) — Ed. 

ia)  My  wife,  my  children,  weep  not  for  me;  forget  me  not,  but  reipember  above 
everything  never  to  offend  God, 


ZAJVOJVI. 


you  predict  of  the  Revolution — how,  at  least,  will  it  affect 
us  ? ” 

At  that  question,  Cazotte  started — ^his  cheeks  grew  pale, 
large  drops  stood  on  his  forehead — his  lips  writhed.  His  gay 
companions  gazed  on  him  in  surprise. 

“ Speak  ! ” whispered  the  stranger,  laying  his  hand  gently 
upon  the  arm  of  the  old  wit. 

At  that  word,  Cazotte’s  face  grew  locked  and  rigid,  his 
eyes  dwelt  vacantly  on  space,  and  in  a low,  hollow  voice,  he 
thus  answered — * 

“ You  ask  how  it  will  affect  yourselves, — you,  its  most 
learned,  and  its  least  selfish  agents.  I will  answer ; you. 
Marquis  de  Condorcet,  will  die  in  prison,  but  not  by  the 
hand  of  the  executioner.  In  the  peaceful  happiness  of  that 
day,  the  philospher  will  carry  about  with  him,  not  the  elixir, 
but  the  poison.” 

“ My  poor  Cazotte,”  said  Condorcet,  with  his  gentle  smile, 
“ what  have  prisons,  executioners,  and  poison,  to  do  with  an 
age  of  liberty  and  brotherhood  ? ” 

“ It  is  in  the  names  of  Liberty  and  Brotherhood  that  the 
prisons  will  reek,  and  the  headsmen  be  glutted.” 

“ You  are  thinking  of  priestcraft,  not  philosophy,  Cazotte,” 
said  Chamfort.  f “ And  what  of  me ” 

“ You  will  open  your  own  veins  to  escape  the  fraternity  of 
Cain.  Be  comforted ; the  last  drops  will  not  follow  the 
razor.  For  you,  venerable  Malesherbes, — ^for  you,  Aimar 
Nicolai, — for  you,  learned  Bailly, — I see  them  dress  the 
scaffold ! And  all  the  while,  O great  philosophers,  your 
murderers  will  have  no  word  but  philosophy  on  their  lips  ! ” 

The  hush  was  complete  and  universal  when  the  pupil  of 
Voltaire — the  prince  of  the  academic  skeptics,  hot  La  Harpe 
— cried,  with  a sarcastic  laugh,  “ Do  not  flatter  me,  O prophet^ 

* The  following  prophecy  (not  unfamiliar,  perhaps,  to  some  of  my  readers), 
with  some  slight  variations,  and  at  greater  length,  in  the  text  of  the  authority  I am 
about  to  cite,  is  to  be  found  in  La  Harpe’s  posthumous  Works.  The  MS.  is  said 
to  exist  still  in  La  Harpe’s  hand-writing,  and  the  story  is  given  on  M.  Petitot’s  au- 
thority, vol.  i.  p.  62.  It  is  not  for  me  to  inquire  if  there  be  doubts  of  its  founda- 
tion on  fact.— Ed. 

t Chamfort,  one  of  those  men  of  letters,  who,  though  misled  by  the  first  fair  show 
of  the  Revolution,  refused  to  follow  the  baser  men  of  action  into  its  horrible 
excesses,  lived  to  express  the  murderous  philanthropy  of  its  agents  by  the  best  bon 
mot  of  the  time.  Seeing  written  on  the  walls,  “ Fraternity  ou  la  Mort,”  he 
observed  that  the  sentiment  should  be  translated  thus— “ Sois  man  fr'^re,  on  je  U 
tucJ*  ia) 


ia)  “ Re  my  brother,  or  I kill  the?.” 


ZANONT. 


49 


by  exemption  from  the  fate  of  my  companions.  Shall  / have 
no  part  to  play  in  this  drama  of  your  phantasies  ? ” 

At  this  question,  Cazotte’s  countenance  lost  its  unnatural 
expression  of  awe  and  sternness  ; the  sardonic  humor  most 
common  to  it  came  back  and  played  in  his  brightening  eyes. 

“Yes,  La  Harpe,  the  most  wonderful  part  of  all  ! Vou 
will  become — a Christian  ! ” 

This  was  too  much  for  the  audience  that  a moment  before 
seemed  grave  and  thoughtful,  and  they  burst  into  an  immod- 
erate fit  of  laughter,  while  Cazotte,  as  if  exhaused  by  his 
predilictions,  sank  back  in  his  chair,  and  breathed  hard  and 
heavily. 

“ Nay,”  said  Madame  de  G , “you  who  have  predicted 

such  grave  things  concerning  us,  must  prophesy  something 
also  about  yourself.” 

A convulsive  tremor  shook  the  involuntary  prophet ; it 
passed,  and  left  his  countenance  elevated  by  an  expression  of 
resignation  and  calm.  “Madame,'’  said  he,  after  a long 
pause,  “during  the  siege  of  Jerusalem,  we  are  told  by  its 
historian  that  a man,  for  seven  successive  days,  went  round 
the  ramparts,  exclaiming,  ‘ Woe  to  thee,  Jerusalem,  woe  to 
myself  ! ’ ” 

“Well,  Cazotte,  well?” 

“ And  on  the  seventh  day,  while  he  thus  spoke,  a stone 
from  the  machines  of  the  Romans  dashed  him  into  atoms  ! ” 

With  these  words  Cazotte  arose  ; and  the  guests  aw’ed,  in 
spite  of  themselves,  shortly  afterwards  broke  up  and  retired. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Qui  done  t’a  donn6  la  mission  s’annoncer  au  peuple  que  la  divinitfi  n’existe  pas 
—quel  avantage  trouves-tu  persuader  ^ I’homme  qu’une  force  aveugle  preside 
d ses  destinies  et  frappe  au  hasard  le  crime  et  la  vertu  ? * RoBESPiERRi  , Dis- 
cours, Mai  7,  1794. 

It  was  sometime  before  midnight  when  the  stranger 
returned  home.  His  apartments  were  situated  in  one  of  those 
vast  abodes  which  may  be  called  an  epitome  of  Paris  itself. 
The  cellars  rented  by  mechanics,  scarcely  removed  a step 

* Who  then  iirvested  you  with  the  mission  to  announce  to  the  people  that 
there  is  no  God  ? What  advantage  find  you  in  persuading  man  that  nothing  but 
blind  force  presides  over  his  destinies,  ana  strikes  haphazard  both  crime  and 
rirtue  ? 


4 


5® 


ZANOm 


from  paupers,  by  outcasts  and  fugitives  from  the  law,-^ 
often  by  some  daring  writer,  who,  after  scattering  amongst 
the  people  doctrines  the  most  subversive  of  order,  or  the 
most  libellous  on  the  characters  of  priest,  minister  and  king 
— retired  among  the  rats,  to  escape  the  persecution  that 
attends  the  virtuous — the  ground  floor  occupied  by  shops — 
the  entresol  by  artists — the  principal  stories  by  nobles — and 
the  garrets  by  journeymen  or  grizettes. 

As  the  stranger  passed  up  the  stairs,  a young  man  of  a 
form  and  countenance  singularly  prepossessing,  emerged 
from  a door  in  the  entresol^  and  brushed  beside  him.  His 
glance  was  furtive,  sinister,  savage,  and  yet  timorous ; the 
man’s  face  was  of  an  ashen  paleness,  and  the  features  worked 
convulsively.  The  stranger  paused,  and  observed  him  with 
thoughtful  looks,  as  he  hurried  down  the  stairs.  While  he 
thus  stood,  he  heard  a groan  from  the  room  which  the  young 
man  had  just  quitted  ; the  latter  had  pulled  to  the  daor  with 
hasty  vehemence,  but  some  fragment,  probably  of  fuel,  had 
prevented  its  closing,  and  it  now  stood  slightly  ajar;  the 
stranger  pushed  it  open  and  entered.  He  passed  a small 
ante-room,  meanly  furnished,  and  stood  in  a bed-chamber  of 
meagre  and  sordid  discomfort.  Stretched  on  the  bed,  and 
writhing  in  pain,  lay  an  old  man  ; a single  candle  lit  the 
room,  and  threw  its  feeble  ray  over  the  furrowed  and  death- 
like face  of  the  sick  person.  No  attendant  was  by ; he 
seemed  left  alone  to  breathe  his  last.  “ Water,”  he  moaned, 
feebly — “ water — I parch — I burn  ! ” The  intruder  ap- 
proached the  bed,  bent  over  him  and  took  his  hand — “ Oh, 
bless  thee,  Jean,  bless  thee  ! ” said  the  sufferer;  ‘‘hast  thou 
brought  back  the  physician  already  ? Sir,  I am  poor,  but  I 
can  pay  you  well.  I would  not  die  yet,  for  that  young  man’s 
sake.”  And  he  sat  upright  in  his  bed,  and  fixed  his  dim  eyes 
anxiously  on  his  visitor. 

“ What  are  your  symptoms,  your  disease  ? ” 

“ Fire — fire — ;fire  in  the  heart,  the  entrails — I burn ! ” 

“ How  long  is  it  since  you  have  taken  food  ? ” 

“ Food ! only  this  broth.  There  is  the  basin,  all  I have 
taken  these  six  hours.  I had  scarce  drunk  it  ere  these  pains 
began.” 

The  stranger  looked  at  the  basin : some  portion  of  the 
contents  was  yet  left  there. 

'‘Who  administered  this  to  you  ? ” 

“Who?  Jeanl  Wb'^  ^’“"'^ould?  I have  no  servant— « 


I. 


ZANONL  «a 

none ! I am  poor,  very  poor,  sir.  But  no ! you  physicians 
do  not  care  for  the  poor.  lam  rich  ! can  you  cure  me  ? ” 

“Yes,  if  Heaven  permit.  Wait  for  a few  moments.” 

The  old  man  was  fast  sinking  under  the  rapid  effects  of 
poison.  The  stranger  repaired  to  his  own  apartments,  and 
returned  in  a few  moments  with  some  preparation  that  had 
the  instant  result  of  an  antidote.  The  pain  ceased,  the  blue 
and  livid  color  receded  from  the  lips ; the  old  man  fell  into  a 
profound  sleep.  The  stranger  drew  the  curtains  round  the 
bed,  took  up  the  light,  and  inspected  the  apartment.  The 
walls  of  both  rooms  were  hung  with  drawings  of  masterly  ex- 
cellence. A portfolio  was  filled  with  sketches  of  equal  skill : 
but  these  last  were  mostly  subjects  that  appalled  the  eye  and 
revolted  the  taste  : they  displayed  the  human  figure  in  every 
variety  of  suffering — the  rack,  the  wheel,  the  gibbet,  all  that 
cruelty  has  invented  to  sharpen  the  pangs  of  death,  seemed 
yet  more  dreadful  from  the  passionate  gusto  and  earnest 
force  of  the  designer.  And  some  of  the  countenances  of 
those  thus  delineated  were  sufiiciently  removed  from  the  ideal 
to  show  that  they  were  portraits ; in  a large,  bold,  irregular 
hand,  was  written  beneath  these  drawings,  “ The  Future  of 
the  Aristocrats.”  In  a corner  of  the  room,  and  close  by  an 
old  bureau,  was  a small  bundle,  over  which,  as  if  to  hide  it, 
a cloak  was  thrown  carelessly.  Several  shelves  were  filled 
with  books ; these  were  almost  entirely  the  works  of  the  phi- 
losophers of  the  time — the  philosophers  of  the  material 
school,  especially  the  Encyclopedistes,  whom  Robespierre 
afterwards  so  singularly  attacked,  when  the  coward  deemed 
it  unsafe  to  leave  his  reign  without  a God*  A volume  lay 
on  a table — it  was  one  of  Voltaire,  and  the  page  was  opened 
at  his  argumentative  assertion  of  the  existence  of  the  Supreme 
Being.f  The  margin  was  covered  with  pencilled  notes,  in 

^ Cette  secte  (les  Encyclopedistes)  propagea  avec  beaucoup  de  zMe  Popinion 
dn  materialisme,  qiii  prevalut  parmi  les  grands  et  parmi  les  beaux  esprits  ; on  lui 
doit  en  partie  cette  espece  de  philosophie  pratique  qui,  reduisant  PEgoisme  en  sys- 
teme,  regarde  la  societe  humaine  comme  une  guerre  de  ruse,  le  succfes  comme  la 
rfegle  du  juste  et  de  Pinjuste,  la  probite  comme  une  affaire  de  goUt,  ou  de  biens6ance, 
le  monde  comme  le  patrimoine  des  friponsa  droits,  (a) — DiscouRS  DE  Robes- 
pierre, Mai  7,  1794. 

(a)  This  sect  (the  Encyclopiedists)  propagate  with  much  zeal  the  doctrine  ot 
materialism,  which  prevails  among  the  great  and  the  wits  ; we“^we  to  it,  partly, 
that  kind  of  practical  philosophy  which,  reducing  Egotism  to  a system,  looks  upon 
society  as  a war  of  cunning — success  the  rule  of  right  or  wrong — honesty  as  aq 
affair  of  taste  or  decency — and  the  world  as  the  patrimony  of  clever  scoundrels. 

t Histoire  de  Jenni- 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
ILLINOIS  LIBRARY 
liT  URBANA  CrtAMPAIGN 


52 


ZANOm. 


the  stiff  but  tremulous  hand  of  old  age  all  in  attempt  to  refute 
or  to  ridicule  the  logic  of  the  sage  of  Ferney  : Voltaire  did  not 
go  far  enough  for  the  annotator  ! The  clock  struck  two,  when 
the  sound  of  steps  was  heard  without.  The  stranger  silently 
seated  himself  on  the  farther  side  of  the  bed,  and  its  drapery 
screened  him,  as  he  sat,  from  the  eyes  of  a man  who  now  en- 
tered on  tiptoe ; it  was  the  same  person  who  had  passed  him 
on  the  stairs.  The  new  comer  took  up  the  candle  and  ap- 
proached the  bed.  The  old  man’s  face  was  turned  to  the 
pillow ; but  he  lay  so  still,  and  his  breathing  was  so  inaudible, 
that  his  sleep  might  well,  by  that  hasty,  shrinking,  guilty 
glance,  be  mistaken  for  the  repose  of  death.  The  new  comer 
drew  back,  and  a grim  smile  passed  over  his  face : he  re- 
placed the  candle  on  the  table,  opened  the  bureau  with  a key 
which  he  took  from  his  pocket,  and  loaded  himself  with  sev- 
eral rouleaus  of  gold,  that  he  found  in  the  drawers.  At  this 
time  the  old  man  began  to  wake.  He  stirred,  he  looked  up ; 
he  turned  his  eyes  towards  the  light  now  waning  in  its  socket ; 
he  saw  the  robber  at  his  work  ; he  sat  erect  for  an  instant,  as 
if  transfixed,  more  even  by  astonishment  than  terror.  At  last 
he  sprang  from  his  bed — 

“ Just  Heaven  ! do  I dream  ! Thou — thou — thou  for  whom 
I toiled  and  starved! — Thou 

The  robber  started ; the  gold  fell  from  his  hand,  and  rolled 
on  the  floor. 

“ What  1 ” he  said,  “ art  thou  not  dead  yet  ? Has  the  poi- 
son failed  ? ” 

“ Poison,  boy  I Ah  I ” shrieked  the  old  man,  and  covered 
his  face  with  his  hands ; then,  with  sudden  energy,  he  ex- 
claimed, **Jean!  Jean!  recall  that  word.  Rob,  plunder  me 
if  thou  wilt,  but  do  not  say  thou  couldst  murder  one  who  only 
lived  for  thee ! There,  there,  take  the  gold ; I hoarded  it 
but  for  thee.  Go-go  1 ” and  the  old  man,  who,  in  his  passion, 
had  quitted  his  bed,  fell  at  the  feet  of  the  foiled  assassin,  and 
writhed  on  the  ground — the  mental  agony  more  intolerable 
than  that  of  the  body,  which  he  had  so  lately  undergone.  The 
robber  looked  at  him  with  a hard  disdain. 

“ What  have  I ever  done  to  thee,  wretch  ? ” cried  the  old 
man,  “ what  but  loved  and  cherished  thee  ? Thou  wert  an 
orphan — an  outcast.  I nurtured,  nursed,  adopted  thee  as  my 
son.  If  men  called  me  a miser,  it  was  but  that  none  might 
despise  thee,  my  heir,  because  nature  has  stunted  and  de- 
formed thee,  when  I was  no  more.  Thou  wouldst  have  had 
^11  when  I was  dead.  Couldst  thou  not  spare  me  a few 


ZANONI, 


sa 

months  or  days — nothing  to  thy  youth,  all  that  is  left  to  my 
age  ? What  have  I done  to  thee  ? ” 

“ Thou  hast  continued  to  live,  and  thou  wouldst  make  no 
will.’* 

“ Mon  Dieu  ! Mon  Dieu  !'  ‘ 

Mon  Dieu  ! Thy  God!  Fool!  Hast  thou  not  told  me, 
from  my  childhood,  there  is  no  God  ? Hast  thou  not  fed  me 
on  philosophy  ? Hast  thou  not  said,  ‘ Be  virtuous,  be  good, 
be  just,  for  the  sake  of  mankind  ; but  there  is  no  life  after 
this  life  ? ’ Mankind ! why  should  I love  mankind  ? Hideous 
and  mis-shapen,  mankind  jeer  at  me  as  I pass  the  streets. 
What  hast  thou  done  to  me  ? Thou  hast  taken  away  from  me, 
who  am  the  scoff  of  this  world,  the  hopes  of  another  ! Is 
there  no  other  life  ? Well,  then,  I want  thy  gold,  that  at  least 
I may  hasten  to  make  the  best  of  this  ! ” 

“ Monster  ! Curses  light  on  thy  ingratitude,  thy ** 

“ And  who  hears  thy  curses  ? Thou  knowest  there  is  no 
God ! Mark  me  : I have  prepared  all  to  fly.  See — I have  my 
passport ; my  horses  wait  without ; relays  are  ordered.  I 
have  thy  gold.”  (And  the  wretch,  as  he  spoke,  continued 
coldly  to  load  his  person  with  the  rouleaus.)  “ And  now,  if  I 
spare  thy  life,  how  shall  I be  sure  that  thou  wilt  not  inform 
against  mine  ? ” He  advanced  with  a gloomy  scowl  and  a 
menacing  gesture  as  he  spoke. 

The  old  man’s  anger  changed  to  fear.  He  cowered  before 
the  savage.  “ Let  me  live  ! let  me  live  !- — that — that—** 

“ That — ^what  ? ” 

“ I may  pardon  thee  ! Yes,  thou  hast  nothing  to  fear  from 
me.  I swear  it ! ” 

“ Swear ! But  by  whom  and  what,  old  man  ? I cannot 
believe  thee,  if  thou  believest  not  in  any  God!  Ha,  hal 
behold  the  result  of  thy  lessons.” 

Another  moment,  and  those  murderous  fingers  would  have 
strangled  their  prey.  But  between  the  assassin  and  his  vic- 
tim rose  a form  that  seemed  almost  to  both  a visitor  from  the 
world  that  both  denied — stately  with  majestic  strength, 
glorious  with  awful  beauty. 

The  ruffian  recoiled,  looked,  trembled,  and  then  turned 
and  fled  from  the  chamber.  The  old  man  fell  again  to  the 
ground  insensible. 


14 


' - ' ’ . ' " ' V 


ZANOm. 


i 

i 

i 

1 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

To  know  how  a bad  man  will  act  when  in  power,  reverse  all  the  doctrines  hi 
preaches  when  obscure. — S.  Montague. 

Antipathies  also  form  a part  of  magic  (falsely)  so  called.  Man  naturally  has  the 
same  instinct  as  the  animals ; which  warns  them . involuntarily  against  the 
creatures  that  are  hostile  or  fatal  to  their  existence.  But  he  so  often  neglects 
it,  that  it  becomes  dormant.  Not  so  the  true  cultivator  of  the  Great  Science, 
&c.  Trismegistus  the  Fourth.  (A  Rosicrucian.) 

When  he  again  saw  the  old  man  the  next  day,  the  stranger 
found  him  calm,  and  surprisingly  recovered  from  the  scene 
and  sufferings  of  the  night.  He  expressed  his  gratitude  to 
his  preserver  with  tearful  fervor,  and  stated  that  he  had 
already  sent  for  a relation,  who  would  make  arrangements 
for  his  future  safety  and  mode  of  life.  “For  I have  money 
yet  left,”  said  the  old  man ; “ and  henceforth  have  no  motive 
Vo  be  a miser.”  He  proceeded  then  briefly  to  relate  the 
origin  and  circumstances  of  his  connection  with  his  intended 
murderer. 

It  seems  that  in  earlier  life  he  had  quarrelled  with  his 
relations— from  a difference  in  opinions  of  belief.  Rejecting 
all  religion  as  a fable,  he  yet  cultivated  feelings  that  inclined 
him — for  though  his  intellect  was  weak,  his  dispositions  were 
good — to  that  false  and  exaggerated  sensibility  which  its 
dupes  so  often  mistake  for  benevolence.  He  had  no  children ; 
he  resolved  to  adopt  an  enfant  du  peuple.  He  resolved  to 
educate  this  boy  according  to  “ Reason.”  He  selected  an 
orphan  of  the  lowest  extraction,  whose  defects  of  person  and 
constitution  only  yet  the  more  moved  his  pity,  and  Anally 
engrossed  his  affection.  In  this  outcast  he  not  only  loved  a 
son,  he  loved  a theory  ! He  brought  him  up  most  philosophi- 
cally. Helvetius  had  proved  to  him  that  education  can  do 
all ; and  before  he  was  eight  years  old,  the  little  Jean’s 
favorite  expressions  were — lumiere  et  la  vertuP^  The 
boy  showed  talents,  especially  in  art.  The  protector  sought 
for  a master  who  was  as  free  from  “ superstition”  as  himself, 
and  selected  the  painter  David.  That  person,  as  hideous  as 
his  pupil,  and  whose  dispositions  were  as  vicious  as  his  pro 

*,Hghtand  virtue. 


1 


ZANONI. 


55 


fessional  abilities  were  undeniable,  was  certainly  as  free  from 
“ superstition  ” as  the  protector  could  desire.  It  was  reserved 
for  Robespierre  hereafter  to  make  the  sanguinary  painter 
believe  in  the  Eire  Suprbne.  The  boy  was  early  sensible  of 
his  ugliness,  which  was  almost  preternatural.  His  benefactor 
found  it  in  vain  to  reconcile  him  to  the  malice  of  nature  by 
his  philosophical  aphorisms  ; but  when  he  pointed  out  to  him 
that  in  this  world  money,  like  charity,  covers  a multitude  of 
defects,  the  boy  listened  eagerly  and  was  consoled.  To  save 
money  for  his  protege — for  the  only  thing  in  the  world  he 
loved — this  became  the  patron’s  passion.  Verily,  he  had 
met  with  his  reward. 

“ But  I am  thankful  he  has  escaped,”  said  the  old  man, 
wiping  his  eyes.  ‘‘  Had  he  left  me  a beggar,  I could  never 
have  accused  him.” 

“ No,  for  you  are  the  author  of  his  crimes.” 

“ How ! I,  who  never  ceased  to  inculcate  the  beauty  of 
virtue  ? Explain  yourself.” 

“ Alas,  if  thy  pupil  did  not  make  this  clear  to  thee  last 
night  from  his  own  lips,  an  angel  might  come  from  heaven  to 
preach  to  thee  in  vain.” 

The  old  man  moved  uneasily,  and  was  about  to  reply, 
when  the  relative  he  had  sent  for,  and  who,  a native  of  Nancy, 
happened  to  be  at  Paris  at  the  time — entered  the  room.  He 
was  a man  somewhat  past  thirty,  and  of  a dry,  saturnine, 
meagre  countenance,  restless  eyes,  and  compressed  lips.  He 
listened,  with  many  ejaculations  of  horror,  to  his  relation’s 
recital,  and  sought  earnestly,  but  in  vain,  to  induce  him  tv 
give  information  against  his  protege. 

“ Tush,  tush,  R?ne  Dumas  ! ” said  the  old  man,  “ you  are 
a lawyer.  You  are  bred  to  regard  human  life  with  contempt. 
Let  any  man  break  a law,  and  you  shout — ‘ Execute  him  ! ’ ” 

“ I ! ” cried  Dumas,  lifting  up  his  hands  and  eyes  : “ ven- 
erable sage,  how  you  misjudge  me  ! I lament  more  than  any 
one  the  severity  of  our  code.  I think  the  state  never  should 
take  away  life — no,  not  even  the  life  of  a murderer.  I agree 
with  that  fyoung  statesman — Maximilien  Robespierre — that 
the  executioner  is  the  invention  of  the  tyrant.  My  very 
attachment  to  our  advancing  revolution  is,  that  it  must  sweep 
away  this  legal  butchery.” 

The  lawyer  paused,  out  of  breath.  The  stranger  regarded 
him  fixedly,  and  turned  pale. 

“You  change  countenance,  sir,”  said  Dumas;  “you  do 
not  agree  with  me.” 

r 

1 


56 


ZANONI. 


“ Pardon  me,  I was  at  that  moment  repressing  a vague  feai 
w'hich  seemed  prophetic.” 

“ And  that ” 

“ Was  that  we  should  meet  again,  when  your  opinions 
on  Death  and  Philosophy  of  Revolutions  might  be  dif- 
ferent.” 

“ Never!” 

“ You  enchant  me.  Cousin  R^n^,”  said  the  old  man,  who 
had  listened  to  his  relation  with  delight.  “ Ah,  I see  you 
have  proper  sentiments  of  justice  and  philanthropy.  Why 
did  I not  seek  to  know  you  before  ? You  admire  the  Revolu- 
tion ? — ^you,  equally  with  me,  detest  the  barbarity  of  kings, 
and  the  fraud  of  priests  ? ” 

“ Detest  1 How  could  I love  mankind  if  I did  not  ? ” 

“ And,”  said  the  old  man,  hesitatingly,  “ you  do  not  think, 
with  this  noble  gentleman,  that  I erred  in  the  precepts  I in- 
stilled into  that  wretched  man  } ” 

“ Erred ! Was  Socrates  to  blame  if  Alcibiades  was  an 
adulterer  and  a traitor  ? ' ’ 

“ You  hear  him — ^you  hear  him  I But  Socrates  had  also  a 
Plato ; henceforth  you  shall  be  a Plato  to  me.  You  hear 
him  ? ” exclaimed  the  old  man,  turning  to  the  stranger. 

But  the  latter  was  at  the  threshold.  Who  shall  argue 
with  the  most  stubborn  of  all  bigotries — the  fanaticism  of  un- 
belief ? 

“ Are  you  going  ? ” exclaimed  Dumas,  “ and  before  I havf 
thanked  you,  blessed  you,  for  the  life  of  this  dear  and  vener- 
able man  ? Oh,  if  ever  I can  repay  you — if  ever  you  want 
the  heart’s  blood  of  Rend  Dumas  ! ” Thus  volubly  deliver 
ing  himself,  he  followed  the  stranger  to  the  threshold  of  th» 
second  chamber,  and  there,  gently  detaining  him.  and  aftei 
looking  over  his  shoulder,  to  be  sure  that  he  was  not  heard 
by  the  owner,  he  whispered,  ‘M  ought  to  return  to  Nancy. 
One  would  not  lose  one’s  time ; you  don’t  think,  sir,  that  thfc 
scoundrel  took  away  a//  the  old  fool’s  money  ? ” 

“ Was  it  thus  Plato  spoke  of  Socrates,  Monsieur  Du 
mas  ? ” 

“ Ha,  ha  ! — you  are  caustic.  Well,  you  have  a right.  Sil^ 
we  shall  meet  again.” 

“ Again  ! ” muttered  the  stranger,  and  his  brow  darkened 
He  hastened  to  his  chamber,  he  passed  the  day  and  the  night 
alone,  and  in  studies,  no  matter  of  what  nature, — they  served 
io  increase  his  gloom. 

Y/hat  could  ever  connect  his  fate  with  Rene  Dumas  ? or 


ZANONL 


57 


the  fugitive  assassin  ? Why  did  the  buoyant  air  of  Paris 
seem  to  him  heavy  with  the  streams  of  blood  ? — why  did  an 
instinct  urge  him  to  fly  from  those  sparkling  circles,  from  that 
focus  of  the  world's  awakened  hopes,  warning  him  from  re- 
turn ? — he,  whose  lofty  existence  defied — but  away  these 
dreams  and  omens  ! He  leaves  France  behind.  Back,  O 
Italy,  to  thy  majestic  wrecks  ! On  the  Alps  his  soul  breathes 
the  free  air  once  more.  Free  air  ! Alas,  let  the  world-heaF 
ers  exhaust  their  chemistry  ; Man  never  shall  be  free  in  the 
market-place  as  on  the  mountain.  But  we,  reader,  we  too, 
escape  from  these  scenes  of  false  wisdom  clothing  godless 
crime.  Away  once  more 

“ In  den  heitern  Regionen 
Wo  die  reinen  Formen  wohnen.” 

Away,  to  the  loftier  realm  where  the  pure  dwellers  are.  Un- 
polluted by  the  Actual,  the  Ideal  lives  only  with  Art  and 
Beauty,  Sweet  Viola,  by  the  shores  of  the  blue  Parthenope, 
by  Virgil’s  tomb,  and  the  Cimmerian  cavern  we  return  to  thee 
once  more, 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Che  non  vuol  che  ’1  destrier  pih  vada  in  alto, 

Poi  lo  lega  nel  margine  marino 

im  verde  mirto  in  mezzo  un  lauro  e un  pino^ 

Orl.  Fur.,  c.  vi.  xxiii. 

O MUSICIAN  ! art  thou  happy  now  ? Thou  art  re-installed 
at  thy  stately  desk — thy  faithful  barbiton  has  its  share  in  the 
triumph.  It  is  thy  master-piece  which  fills  thy  ear — it  is  thy 
daughter  who  fills  the  scene — the  music,  the  actress  so  united, 
that  applause  to  one  is  applause  to  both.  They  make  way 
for  thee  at  the  orchestra — they  no  longer  jeer  and  wink, 
when,  with  a fierce  fondness,  thou  dost  caress  thy  Familiar, 
that  plains,  and  wails,  and  chides,  and  growls,  under  thy  re- 
morseless hand.  They  understand  now  how  irregular  is  the 
symmetry  of  real  genius.  The  inequalities  in  its  surface 
make  the  moon  luminous  to  man.  Giovanni  Paisiello,  Mae- 
stro di  Capella,  if  thy  gentle  soul  could  know  envy,  thou 

* As  he  did  not  wish  that  his  charger  (the  hippogriff)  should  take  any  lurthe* 
excursions  into  the  higher  regions  for  the  present,  he  bound  him  at  a sea-shore  ti 
a green  myrtle  between  a laurel  and  a nine. 


58 


ZANOm. 


must  sicken  to  se®  thy  Elfricla  and  thy  Pirro  laid  aside,  and 
all  Naples  turned  fanatic  to  the  Siret*,  at  whose  measures 
shook  querulously  thy  gentle  head  I But  thou,  Paisiello,  calm 
in  the  long  prosperity  of  fame,  know^st  that  the  New  will 
have  its  day,  and  comfortest  thyself  th&t  the  Elfrida  and  the 
Pirro  will  live  forever.  Perhaps  a mistake,  but  it  is  by  such 
mistakes  that  true  genius  conquers  envy.  “ To  be  immortaV 
says  Schiller,  “ live  in  the  whole.^  To  be  superior  to  the 
hour,  live  in  thy  self-esteem.  The  audience  now  would  give 
theit  ears  for  those  variations  and  flights  they  were  once 
wont  to  hiss.  No  ! — Pisani  has  been  two-thirds  of  a life  at 
silent  work  on  his  master-piece  : there  is  nothing  he  can  add 
to  that,  however  he  might  have  sought  to  improve  on  the 
master-pieces  of  others.  Is  not  this  common?  The  least 
little  critic,  in  reviewing  some  work  of  art,  will  say,  “ pity 
this,  and  pity  that ; ” “ this  should  have  been  altered — that 
omitted.”  Yea,  with  his  wiry  fiddle-string  will  he  creak  out 
his  accursed  variations.  But  let  him  sit  down  and  compose 
himself.  He  sees  no  improvement  in  variations  then  I Every 
man  can  control  his  fiddle  when  it  is  his  own  work  with  which 
its  vagaries  would  play  the  -devil. 

And  Viola  is  the  idol — the  theme  of  Naples.  She  is  the 
spoiled  sultana  of  the  boards.  To  spoil  her  acting  may  be 
easy  enough — shall  they  spoil  her  nature  ? No,  I think  not. 
There,  at  home,  she  is  still  good  and  simple ; and  there, 
under  the  awning  by  the  door-way — there  she  still  sits,  di- 
vinely musing.  How  often,  crook-trunked  tree,  she  looks  to 
thy  green  boughs ; how  often,  like  thee,  in  her  dreams  and 
fancies,  does  she  struggle  for  the  light : — Not  the  light  of  the 
stage-lamps.  Pooh,  child  ! be  contented  with  the  lamps,  even 
with  the  rush-lights.  A farthing  candle  is  more  convenient 
for  household  purposes  than  the  stars. 

Weeks  passed,  and  the  stranger  did  not  re-appear:  months 
passed,  and  his  prophecy  of  sorrow  was  not  yet  fulfilled. 
One  evening  Pisani  was  taken  ill.  His  success  had  brought 
on  the  long-neglected  composer  pressing  applications  for  con- 
certi  and  sonata,  adapted  to  his  more  peculiar  science  on  the 
violin.  He  had  been  employed  for  some  weeks,  day  and 
night,  on  a piece  in  which  he  hoped  to  excel  himself.  He 
took,  as  usual,  one  of  those  seemingly  impracticable  subjects 
which  it  was  his  pride  to  subject  to  the  expressive  powers  of 
his  art — the  terrible  legend  connected  with  the  transforma* 
tion  of  Philomel.  The  pantomime  of  sound  opened  with  th® 
gay  merriment  of  a feast.  The  monarch  of  Thrace  is  at  his 


ZANOm. 


59 


banquet : a sudden  discord  brays  through  the  joyous  notes — 
the  string  seems  to  screech  with  horror.  The  king  learns  the 
murder  of  his  son  by  the  hands  of  the  avenging  sisters. 
Swift  rage  the  chords,  through  the  passions  of  fear,  of  hor- 
ror, of  fury,  and  dismay.  The  father  pursues  the  sisters. 
Hark ! what  changes  the  dread — the  discord — into  that  long, 
silvery,  mournful  music  ? The  transformation  is  completed  ; 
and  Philomel,  now  the  nightingale,  pours  from  the  myrtle-; 
bough  the  full,  liquid,  subduing  notes  that  are  to  tell  ever- 
more to  the  world  the  history  of  her  woes  and  wrongs.  Now, 
it  was  in  the  midst  of  this  complicated  and  difficult  attempt 
that  the  health  of  the  over-tasked  musician,  excited  alike  by 
past  triumph  and  new  ambition,  suddenly  gave  way.  He 
was  taken  ill  at  night.  The  next  morning  the  doctor  pro- 
nounced that  his  disease  was  a malignant  and  infectious  fever. 
His  wife  and  Viola  shared  in  their  tender  watch ; but  soon 
that  task  was  left  to  the  last  alone.  The  Signora  Pisani 
caught  the  infection,  and  in  a few  hours  was  even  in  a state 
more  alarming  than  that  of  her  husband.  The  Neapolitans, 
in  common  with  the  inhabitants  of  all  warm  climates,  are  apt 
to  become  selfish  and  brutal  in  their  dread  of  infectious  dis- 
orders. Gionetta  herself  pretended  to  be  ill,  to  avoid  the 
sick  chamber.  The  whole  labor  of  love  and  sorrow  fell  on 
Viola.  It  was  a terrible  trial — I am  willing  to  hurry  over  the 
details.  The  wife  died  first. 

One  day,  a little  before  sunset,  Pisani  woke  partially  re- 
covered from  the  delirium  which  had  preyed  upon  him,  with  few 
intervals,  since  the  second  day  of  the  disease ; and  casting 
about  him  his  dizzy  and  feeble  eyes,  he  recognized  Viola, 
ind  smiled.  He  faltered  her  name  as  he  rose  and  stretched 
his  arms^  She  fell  upon  his  breast,  and  strove  to  suppress 
her  tears. 

‘‘  Thy  mother  ? ” he  said.  Does  she  sleep  ? ” 

“ She  sleeps — ah,  yes  ! ” and  the  tears  gushed  forth. 

“ I thought — eh  ! I knew  not  what  I thought.  But  do  not 
neep — I shall  be  well  now — quite  well.  She  will  conae  to  me 
^hen  she  wakes — will  she  ? ” 

Viola  could  not  speak ; but  she  busied  herself  in  pouring 
forth  an  anodyne,  which  she  had  been  directed  to  give  the 
sufferer  as  soon  as  the  delirium  should  cease.  The  doctor 
had  told  her,  too,  to  send  for  him  the  instant  so  important  a 
change  should  occur. 

She  went  to  the  door,  and  called  to  the  woman,  who,  dur- 
ing Gionetta’s  pretended  illness,  had  been  induced  to  supj  Iv 


ZANONL 


to 

her  place  ; but  the  hireling  answered  not.  She  flew  through 
the  chambers  to  search  for  her  in  vain — the  hireling  had 
caught  Gionetta’s  fears,  and  vanished.  What  was  to  be 
done  ? The  case  was  urgent — the  doctor  had  declared  not  a 
moment  should  be  lost  in  obtaining  his  attendance  ; she  must 
leave  her  father — she  must  go  herself ! She  crept  back  into 
the  room — the  anodyne  seemed  already  to  have  taken  benign 
effect — the  patient’s  eyes  were  closed,  and  he  breathed  regu- 
larly, as  in  sleep.  She  stole  away,  threw  her  veil  over  her  face, 
and  hurried  from  the  house. 

Now,  the  anodyne  had  not  produced  the  effect  which  it  r/: 
peared  to  have  done ; instead  of  healthful  sleep,  it  ht- ■; 
brought  on  a kind  of  light-headed  somnolence,  in  which  ti  • 
mind,  preternaturally  restless,  wandered  about  its  accustomea 
haunts,  waking  up  its  old  familiar  instincts  and  inclinations. 
It  was  not  sleep — it  was  not  delirium  ; it  was  the  dream-wake- 
fulness which  opium  sometimes  induces,  when  every  nerve 
grows  tremulously  alive,  and  creates  a corresponding  activity 
in  the  frame,  to  which  it  gives  a false  and  hectic  vigor. 
Pisani  missed  something — what,  he  scarcely  knew  ; it  was  a 
combination  of  the  two  wants  most  essential  to  his  mental 
life — the  voice  of  his  wife,  the  touch  of  his  Familiar.  He 
rose — he  left  his  bed — he  leisurely  put  on  his  old  dressing- 
robe,  in  which  he  was  wont  to  compose.  He  smiled  com- 
placently as  the  associations  connected  with  the  garment 
came  over  his  memory ; he  walked  tremulously  across  the 
room,  and  entered  the  small  cabinet  next  to  his  chamber,  in 
which  his  wife  had  been  accustomed  more  often  to  watch 
than  sleep,  when  illness  separated  her  from  his  side.  The 
room  was  desolate  and  void.  He  looked  round  wistfully, 
and  muttered  to  himself,  and  then  proceeded  regularly,  and 
with  a noiseless  step,  through  the  chambers  of  the  silent 
house,  one  by  one. 

He  came  at  last  to  that  in  which  Gionetta, — faithful  to  her 
own  safety,  if  nothing  else — nursed  herself,  in  the  remotest 
corner  of  the  house,  from  the  danger  of  infection.  As  he 
glided  in — wan,  emaciated,  with  an  uneasy,  anxious,  search- 
ing look  in  his  haggard  eyes — the  old  woman  shrieked  aloud, 
and  fell  at  his  feet.  He  bent  over  her,  passed  his  thin  hands 
along  her  averted  face,  shook  his  head,  and  said  in  a hollow 
voice — 

“ I cannot  find  them  ; where  are  they  ? ” 

“ Who,  dear  master  ? Oh,  have  compassion  cm  yourself, 


ZANOm. 


6i 


they  are  not  here.  Blessed  saints ! this  is  terrible  1 he  has 
touched  me  : I am  dead  ? ” 

“ Dead  ! who  is  dead  ? Is  any  one  dead  ? 

“ Ah  ! don’t  talk  so  ; you  must  know  it  well : my  poor 
mistress — she  caught  the  fever  from  you  ; it  is  infectious 
enough  to  kill  a whole  city.  San  Gennaro,  protect  me  ! My 
poor  mistress — she  is  dead — buried,  too ; and  I,  your  faithful 
Gionetta,  woe  is  me ! Go,  go — to — to  bed  again,  dearest 
master — go ! ” 

The  poor  musician  stood  for  one  momeni:  mute  and  urs 
moving,  then  a slight  shiver  ran  through  his  frame : he  turner, 
and  glided  back,  silent  and  spectre- like;  as  ht  had  entered 
Be  :yme  intc.  the  room  where  he  had  been  accustomed  to 
compose — ^where  his  wife,  in  her  sweet  patience,  had  so  often 
sat  by  his  side,  and  praised  and  flattered  when  the  world  had 
but  jeered  and  scorned.  In  one  corner  he  found  the  laurel- 
wreath  she  had  placed  on  his  brow  that  happy  night  of  fame 
and  triumph ; and  near  it,  half  hid  by  her  mantilla,  lay  in  its 
case  the  neglected  instrument. 

Viola  was  not  long  gone ; she  had  found  the  physician ; 
she  returned  wuth  him ; and  as  they  gained  the  threshold, 
they  heard  a strain  of  music  from  within,  a strain  of  pierc- 
ing, heart-rending  anguish ; it  was  not  like  some  senseless 
instrument,  mechanical  in  its  obedience  to  a human  hand — it 
was  as  some  spirit  calling  in  wail  and  agony  from  the  forlorn 
shades,  to  the  angels  it  beheld  afar  beyond  the  Eternal  Gulf. 
They  exchanged  glances  of  dismay.  They  hurried  into  the 
house — they  hastened  into  the  room.  Pisani  turned,  and  his 
look,  full  of  ghastly  intelligence  and  stern  command,  awed 
them  back.  The  black  mantilla,  the  faded  laurel-leaf,  lay 
there  before  him.  Viola’s  heart  guessed  all  at  a single  glance 
— she  sprung  to  his  knees — she  clasped  them — “ Father, 
father,  /am  left  thee  still ! ” 

The  wail  ceased — the  note  changed ; with  a confused  asso- 
ciation— half  of  the  man  half  of  the  artist — the  anguish,  still 
a melody,  was  connected  with  sweeter  sounds  and  thoughts. 
The  nightingale  had  escaped  the  pursuit — soft,  airy,  bird-like, 
— thrilled  the  delicious  notes  a moment,  and  then  died  away. 
The  instrument  fell  to  the  floor,  and  its  chords  snapped. 
You  heard  that  sound  through  the  silence.  The  artist  looked 
on  his  kneeling  child,  and  thien  on  the  broken  chords. 

. . “ Bury  me  by  her  side,”  he  said,  in  a very  calm, 

low  voice ; “ and  that^  by  mine.”  And  with  these  words  his 
whole  frame  became  rigid,  as  if  turned  to  stone.  The  Iasi 


62 


ZANOm. 


change  passed  over  his  face.  He  fell  to  the  ground,  sudden 
and  heavy.  The  chords  there,  too — the  chords  of  the  human 
instrument  were  snapped  asunder.  As  he  fell,  his  robe 
brushed  the  laurel-wreath,  and  that  fell  also,  near,  but  not  in 
reach  of,  the  the  dead  man’s  nerveless  hand. 

Broken  instrument — broken  heart — ^withered  laurel-wreath  ! 
—the  setting  sun  through  the  vine-clad  lattice  streamed  on 
ill ! So  smiles  the  eternal  Nature  on  the  wrecks  of  all  that 
makes  life  glorious  f.  And  not  a sun  that  sets  not  somewhere 
on  the  silenced  music — on  the  faded  laurel ! 


CHAPTER  X. 


Ch^  difesa  miglior  ch’  usbergo  e scudo 
E la  Santa  innocenza  al  petto  ignudo  ! * 

Ger.  Lib.,  c.  viii.  xli. 

And  they  buried  the  Musician  and  his  barbiton  together,  in 
the  same  coffin.  That  famous  Steiner — primaeval  Titan  of  the 
great  Tyrolese  race — often  hast  thou  sought  to  scale  the 
heavens,  and  therefore  must  thou,  like  the  meaner  children  of 
men,  descend  to  the  dismal  Hades  ! Harder  fate  for  thee 
than  thy  mortal  master.  For  thj^  soul  sleeps  with  thee  in  the 
coffin.  And  the  music  that  belongs  to  hts,  separate  from  the 
instrument,  ascends  on  high,  to  be  heard  often  by  a daughter’s 
pious  ears,  when  the  heaven  is  serene  and  the  earth  sad. 
For  there  is  a sense  of  hearing  that  the  vulgar  know  not. 
And  the  voices  of  the  dead  breathe  soft  and  frequent  to  those 
who  can  unite  the  memory  with  the  faith. 

And  now  Viola  is  alone  in  the  world  ; alone  in  the  home 
where  loneliness  had  seemed  from  the  cradle  a thing  that  was 
not  of  nature.  And  at  first  the  solitude  and  stillness  were 
insupportable.  Have  you,  ye  mourners,  to  whom  these  sibyl 
leaves,  weird  with  many  a dark  enigma,  shall  be  borne,  have 
you  not  felt  that  when  the  death  of  some  best-loved  one  has 
made  the  hearth  desolate — have  you  not  felt  as  if  the  gloom 
of  the  altered  home  was  too  heavy  for  thought  to  bear  ? — you 
would  leave  it,  though  a palace,  even  for  a cabin.  And 
yet — sad  to  say — when  you  obey  the  impulse,  when  you  fly 
from  the  walls,  when  in  the  strange  place  in  which  you  seek 

* Better  defence  than  shir’''  innocence  to  the  naked 

breast  ’/ 


ZANOm. 


63 


your  refuge  nothing  speaks  to  you  of  the  lost,  have  ye  not 
felt  again  a yearning  for  that  very  food  to  memory  which  was 
just  before  but  bitterness  and  gall  ! Is  it  not  almost  impious 
and  profane  to  abandon  that  dear  hearth  to  strangers  ? And 
the  desertion  of  the  home  where  your  parents  dwelt,  and 
blessed  you,  upbraids  your  conscience  as  if  you  had  sold  their 
tombs.  Beautiful  was  the  Etruscan  superstition,  that  the 
ancestors  become  the  household  2;ods=  Deaf  is  the  heart  tc 
which  the  Lares  call  from  the  desolate  'bors  in  vain.  A^^  first 
V'iola  had,  in  her  intolerable  anguish,  gratefully  welcomed  the 
refuge  which  the  house  and  family  of  a kindly  neighbor,  much 
attached  to  her  father,  and  who  was  one  of  the  orchestra  that 
Pisani  shall  perplex  no  more,  had  proffered  to  the  orphan. 
But  the  company  of  the  unfamiliar  in  our  grief,  the  consola- 
tion of  the  stranger,  how  it  irritates  the  wound  ! And  then, 
to  hear  elsewhere  the  name  of  father,  mother,  child — as  if 
death  came  alone  to  you — to  see  elsewhere  the  calm  regularity 
of  those  lives  united  in  love  and  order,  keeping  account  of 
happy  hours,  the  unbroken  time-piece  of  home,  as  if  nowhere 
else  the  wheels  were  arrested,  the  chain  shattered,  the  hands 
motionkss,  die  chime  still ! No,  the  grave  itself  does  not 
remind  us  ot  our  loss  like  the  company  of  those  who  have  no 
loss  to  mourn.  Go  back  to  thy  solitude,  young  orphan — go 
back  to  to  thy  home  : the  sorrow  that  meets  thee  on  the 
threshold  can  greet  thee,  even  in  its  sadness,  like  the  smile 
upon  the  face  of  the  dead.  And  there,  from  thy  casement, 
and  there,  from  without  thy  door,  thou  seest  still  the  tree, 
solitary  as  thyself,  and  springing  from  the  clefts  of  the  rock, 
but  forcing  its  way  to  light, — as,  through  all  sorrow,  while  the 
seasons  yet  can  renew  the  verdure  and  bloom  of  youth,  strives 
the  instinct  of  the  human  heart  ! Only  when  the  sap  is  dried 
up,  only  when  age  comes  on,  does  the  sun  shine  in  vain 
for  man  and  for  the  tree. 

Weeks  and  months — months  sad  and  many — again  passed 
and  Naples  will  not  longer  suffer  its  idol  to  seclude  itself 
from  homage.  The  world  ever  plucks  us  back  from  ourselves 
with  a thousand  arms.  And  again  Viola’s  voice  is  heard  upon 
the  stage,  which,  mystically  faithful  to  life,  is  in  nought  more 
faithful  than  this,  that  it  is  the  appearances  that  fill  the  scene  ; 
and  we  pause  not  to  ask  of  what  realities  they  are  the  proxies. 
When  the  actor  of  Athens  moved  all  hearts  as  he  clasped  the 
burial-urn,  and  burst  into  broken  sobs  : how  few,  there,  knew 
that  it  held  the  ashes  of  his  son  ! Gold,  as  well  as  fame,  was 
showered  upon  the  young  actress  : but  she  still  kept  to  hei 


64 


ZANONI. 


simple  mode  of  life,  to  her  lowly  home,  to  the  one  servant, 
whose  faults,  selfish  as  they  were,  Viola  was  too  inexperienced 
to  perceive.  And  it  was  Gionetta  who  had  placed  her,  when 
first  born,  in  her  father’s  arms  ! she  was  surrounded  by  every 
snare,  wooed  by  every  solicitation  that  could  beset  her  un- 
guarded beauty  and  her  dangerous  calling.  But  her  modest 
virtue  passed  unsullied  through  them  all.  It  is  true  that  she 
had  been  taught  by  lips  now  mute  the  maiden  duties  enjoined 
by  honor  and  religion.  And  all  love  that  spoke  not  of  the 
altar  only  shocked  nna  repelled  her.  But  besides  that,  as  grief 
and  solitude  ripened  her  heart,  and  made  her  tremble  at  times 
to  think  how  deeply  it  could  feel,  her  vague  and  early  visions 
shaped  themselves  into  an  ideal  of  love.  And  till  the  ideal 
is  fbund,  how  the  shadow  that  it  throws  before  it  chills  us  to 
the  actual ! With  that  ideal,  ever  and  ever,  unconsciously,  and 
with  a certain  awe  and  shrinking,  came  the  shape  and  voice 
of  the  warning  stranger.  Nearly  two  years  had  passed  since 
he  had  appeared  at  Naples.  Nothing  had  been  heard  of  him, 
save  that  his  vessel  had  been  directed,  some  months  after  his 
departure,  to  sail  for  Leghorn.  By  the  gossips  of  Naples, 
his  existence,  supposed  so  extraordinary,  was  well-nigh  forgot- 
ten : but  the  heart  of  Viola  was  more  faithful.  Often  he 
glided  through  her  dreams,  and  when  the  wind  sighed  through 
that  fantastic  tree,  associated  with  his  remembrance,  she 
started  with  a tremor  and  a blush,  as  if  she  had  heard  him 
speak. 

But  amongst  the  train  of  her  suitors  was  on«  to  whom  she 
listened  more  gently  than  to  the  rest ; partly  because,  perhaps, 
he  spoke  in  her  mother’s  native  tongue,  partly  because  in  his 
diffidence  there  was  little  to  alarm  and  displease : partly 
because  his  rank,  nearer  to  her  own  than  that  of  lordlier 
wooers,  prevented  his  admiration  from  appearing  insult ; 
partly  because  he  himself,  eloquent  and  a dreamer,  often 
uttered  thoughts  that  were  kindred  to  those  buried  deepest  in 
her  mind.  She  began  to  like — perhaps  to  love  him,  but  as  a 
sister  loves  : a sort  of  privileged  familiarity  sprung  up  between 
them.  If,  in  the  Englishman’s  breast,  arose  wild  and  un- 
worthy hopes,  he  had  not  yet  expressed  them.  Is  there  dan- 
ger to  thee  here,  lone  Viola  ? or  is  the  danger  greater  in  thy 
unfound  ideal  ? 

And  now,  as  the  overture  to  some  strange  and  wizard  spec- 
tacle, closes  this  opening  prelude.  Wilt  thou  hear  more  ? 
Come  with  thy  faith  prepared.  I ask  not  the  blinded  eyes, 


ZANONI.  65 

but  the  awakened  sense.  As  the  enchanted  Isle,  remote 
from  the  homes  of  men, 

ove  alcun  legno 

Rado,  o non  mai  va  dalle  nostre  sponde, — * 

(Ger.  Lib.,  cant.  xiv.  69.) 

is  the  space  in  the  weary  ocean  of  actual  life  to  which  the 
Muse  or  Sibyl  (ancient  in  years  but  ever  young  in  aspect), 
^offers  the  no  unhallowed  sail — 

Quinci  ella  in  cima  a una  montagna  ascende 
Disabitata,  e d’  ombre  oscura  e bruna, 

£ par  ineanto  a lei  nevose  rende 
Le  spalle  e i fianchi ; e sensa  neve  alcuna 
Gli  lascia  il  capo  ver  deggiantete  vago  ; 

E vi  fonda  un  palagio  appresso  tin  lago.t 

• Where  ship  seldom  or  never  comes  from  our  coasts 

t There,  she  a mountain’s  lofty  peak  ascends, 

Unpeopled,  shady,  shagg’d  with  forests  brown, 

Whose  sides  by  power  of  magic  half-way  down 
She  hears  with  slippery  ice,  and  frost,  and  snow, 

But  sunshiny  and  verdant  leaves  the  crown 
With  orange-woods  and  myrtles,-speaks,  and  lo  I 
JUch  from  the  bordering  lake  a palace  rises  slow. 

(Wiffin’s  Translattfa./' 


ZANONL 


BOOK  II. 

ART,  LOVE,  AND  WONDER. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Centauri,  e Sfingi,  e pallide  Gorgoni.^ 

Ger.  Lib.,  c.  iy.  v. 

One  moon-lit  night,  in  the  Gardens  at  Naples,  spme  foUi 
©r  five  gentleman  were  seated  under  a tree,  drimking  their 
sherbet,  and  listening  in  the  intervals  of  conversation,  to  the 
music  which  enlivened  that  gay  and  favorite  resort  of  an  in- 
dolent population.  One  of  this  little  party  was  a young 
Englishman,  who  had  been  the  life  of  the  whole  group,  but 
who,  for  the  last  few  moments,  had  sunk  into  a gloomy  and 
abstracted  reverie.  One  of  his  countrymen  observed  this 
sudden  gloom,  and,  tapping  him  on  the  back,  said,  “ What  ails 
you,  Glyndon  ? Are  you  ill  ? You  have  grown  quite  pale — 
you  tremble.  Is  it  a sudden  chill  ? You  had  better  go  home  : 
these  Italian  nights  are  often  dangerous  to  our  English  con- 
stitutions.” 

“No,  I am  well  now  ; it  was  a passing  shudder.  I cannpt 
account  for  it  myself.” 

A man  apparently  of  about  thirty  years  of  age,  and  of  a 
mien  and  countenance  strikingly  superior  to  those  around  him, 
turned  abruptly,  and  looked  steadfastly  at  Glyndon. 

“ I think  I understand  what  you  mean,”  said  he  ; “ and  per- 
haps,” he  added,  with  a grave  smile,  “ I could  explain  it  bet- 
ter than  yourself.”  Here,  turning  to  the  others,  he  added,  “ You 
must  often  have  felt,  gentleman,  each  and  all  of  you,  especially 

^'Centaurs,  and  Sphinxes,  and  pallid  Gorgons. 


68 


ZANONT. 


when  sitting  alone  at  night,  a strange  and  unaccountable  sen- 
sation of  coldness  and  awe  creep  over  you ; your  blood  cur- 
dles and  the  heart  stands  still ; the  limbs  shiver,  the  hair 
bristles  ; you  are  afraid  to  look  up,  to  turn  your  eyes  to  the 
darker  corners  of  the  room  ; you  have  a horrible  fancy  that 
something  unearthly  is  at  hand  ; presently  the  whole  spell,  if 
I may  call  it,  passes  away,  and  you  are  ready  to  laugh  at  your 
own  weakness.  Have  you  not  often  felt  what  I have  thus  im 
perfectly  described  ? if  so,  you  can  understand  what  our 
young  friend  has  just  experienced,  even  amidst  the  delights 
of  this  magical  scene,  and  amidst  the  balmy  whispers  of  a July 
night.” 

“ Sir,”  replied  Glyndon,  evidently  much  surprised,  “ you 
have  defined  exactly  the  nature  of  that  shudder  which  came 
over  me.  But  how  could  my  manner  be  so  faithful  an  index 
to  my  impressions  ? ” 

“ I know  the  signs  of  the  visitation,”  returned  the  stranger, 
gravely ; “ they  are  not  to  be  mistaken  by  one  of  my  ex- 
perience.” 

All  the  gentleman  present  then  declared  that  they  could 
comprehend,  and  had  felt,  what  the  stranger  had  de- 
scribed. 

According  to  one  of  our  national  superstitions,”  said  Mer- 
vale,  the  Englishman  who  had  first  addressed  Glyndon,  “ the 
moment  you  so  feel  your  blood  creep,  and  your  hair  stand  on 
end,  some  one  is  walking  over  the  spot  which  shall  be  your 
grave.” 

“ There  are  in  all  lands  different  superstitions  to  account 
for  so  common  an  occurrance,”  replied  the  stranger  : “ one 
sect  among  the  Arabians  holds  that  at  that  instant  God  is  de- 
ciding the  hour  either  of  your  death,  or  of  some  one  dear  to 
you.  The  African  savage,  whose  imagination  is  darkened  by 
the  hideous  rites  of  his  gloomy  idolatry,  believes  that  the  Evil 
Spirit  is  pulling  you  towards  him  by  the  hair  : so  do  the 
Grotesque  and  the  Terrible  mingle  with  each  other.” 

“ It  is  evidently  a mere  physical  accident — a derangement 
of  the  stomach — a chill  of  the  blood,”  said  a young  Neapolitan, 
with  whom  Glyndon  had  formed  a slight  acquaintance. 

“ Then  why  is  it  always  coupled  in  all  nations  with  some 
superstitious  presentiment  or  terror — some  connection  be-, 
tween  the  material  frame  and  the  supposed  world  without  us  ? 
For  my  part,  I think ” 

“Ay,  what  do  you  think,  sir  ? ” asked  Glyndon,  curir 
<?usly. 


ZANOm. 


69 


“ I think/’  continued  the  stranger,  “ that  it  is  the  repug- 
nance and  horror  with  which  our  more  human  elements  recoil 
from  something,  indeed,  invisible,  but  antipathetic  to  our  own 
nature;  and  from  a knowledge  of  which  we  are  happily 
secured  by  the  imperfection  of  our  senses.” 

“ You  are  a believer  in  spirits,  then ” said  Mervale,  with 
an  incredulous  smile. 

“ Nay,  it  was  not  precisely  of  spirits  that  I spoke  ; but  there 
may  be  forms  of  matter  as  invisible  and  impalpable  to  us  as 
the  animalculse  in  the  air  we  breathe — in  the  water  that  plays 
ill  yonder  basin.  Such  beings  may  have  passions  and  powers 
like  our  own, — as  the  animalculse  to  which  I have  compared 
them.  The  monster  that  lives  and  dies  in  a drop  of  water — 
carniverous,  insatiable,  subsisting  on  the  creatures  minuter 
than  himself — is  not  less  deadly  in  his  wrath,  less  ferocious 
in  his  nature,  than  the  tiger  of  the  desert.  There  may  be 
things  around  us  that  would  be  dangerous  and  hostile  to  men, 
if  Providence  had  not  placed  a wall  between  them  and  us, 
merely  by  different  modifications  of  matter.” 

“ And  think  you  that  wall  never  can  be  removed  ? ” asked 
young  Glyndon,  abruptly.  “ Are  the  traditions  of  sorcerer 
and  wizard,  universal  and  immemorial  as  they  are,  merely 
fables  ? ” 

“ Perhaps  yes — perhaps  no,”  answered  the  stranger,  indif- 
ferently. “ But  who,  in  an  age  in  which  the  reason  has 
chosen  its  proper  bounds,  would  be  mad  enough  to  break  the 
partition  that  divides  him  from  the  boa  and  the  lion — to  repine 
at  and  rebel  against  the  law  which  confines  the  shark  to  the 
great  deep  ? Enough  of  these  idle  speculations.” 

Here  the  stranger  rose,  summoned  the  attendant,  paid  for 
his  sherbet,  and,  bowing  slightly  to  the  company,  soon  disap- 
peared among  the  trees. 

“Who  is  that  gentleman  ? ” asked  Glyndon,  eagerly. 

The  rest  looked  at  eacl?  other,  without  replying,  for  some 
moments. 

“ I never  saw  him  before,”  said  Mervale,  at  last. 

“ Nor  I.” 

“ Nor  I.” 

I know  him  well,”  said  the  Neapolitan,  who  was,  indeed, 
the  Count  Cetoxa.  “ If  you  remember,  it  was  as  my  compan- 
ion that  he  joined  you.  He  visited  Naples  about  two  years 
ago,  and  has  recently  returned ; he  is  very  rich — indeed, 
enormously  so.  A most  agreeable  persoa  I am  sorry  ta 


7© 


ZANOm. 


hear  him  talk  so  strangely  to-night ; it  serves  to  encourage 
the  various  foolish  reports  that  are  circulated  concerning  him.” 

“And  surely,”  said  another  Neapolitan,  “ the  circumstance 
that  occurred  but  the  other  day,  so  well  known  to  yourself, 
Cetoxa,  justifies  the  reports  you  pretend  to  deprecate.” 

“ Myself  and  my  countryman,”  said  Glyndon,  “ mix  so 
little  in  Neapolitan  society,  that  we  lose  much  that  appears 
well  worthy  of  lively  interest.  May  I inquire  what  are  the 
reports,  and  what  is  the  circumstance  you  refer  to  ? ” 

“ As  to  the  reports,  gentlemen,”  said  Cetoxa,  courteously 
addressing  himself  to  the  two  Englishmen,  “ it  may  suffice  to 
observe,  that  they  attribute  to  the  Signor  Zanoni  certain 
qualities  which  everybody  desires  for  himself,  but  damns  any 
one  else  for  possessing.  The  incident  Signor  Belgioso 
alludes  to,  illustrates  these  qualities,  and  is,  I must  own, 
somewhat  startling.  You  probably  play,  gentlemen  ” (Here 
Cetoxa  paused  ; and,  as  both  Englishmen  had  occasionally 
staked  a few  scudi  at  the  public  gaming-tables,  they  bowed 
assent  to  the  conjecture.)  Cetoxa  continued  : “ Well,  then, 
not  many  days  since,  and  on  the  very  day  that  Zanoni 
returned  to  Naples,  it  so  happened  that  I had  been  playing 
pretty  high,  and  had  lost  considerably.  I rose  from  the 
table,  resolved  no  longer  to  tempt  fortune,  when  I suddenly 
perceived  Zanoni,  whose  acquaintance  I had  before  made 
(and  who,  I may  say,  was  under  some  slight  obligation  to  me), 
standing  by,  a spectator.  Ere  I could  express  my  gratifica- 
tion at  this  unexpected  recognition,  he  laid  his  hand  on  my 
arm.  ‘ You  have  lost  much,’  said  he ; ‘ more  than  you  can 
afford.  For  my  part,  I dislike  play ; yet  I wish  to  have  some 
interest  in  what  is  going  on.  Will  you  play  this  sum  for  me  ? 
the  risk  is  mine — the  half  profits  yours.’  I was  startled,  as 
you  may  suppose,  at  such  an  address  ; but  Zanoni  had  an  air 
and  tone  with  him  it  was  impossible  to  resist ; besides,  I was 
burning  to  recover  my  losses,  and  should  not  have  risen  had 
I had  any  money  left  about  me.  I told  him  I would  accept 
his  offer,  provided  we  shared  the  risk  as  well  as  profits.  ‘ As 
you  will,’  said  he,  smiling,  ‘ we  need  have  no  scruple,  for  you 
will  be  sure  to  win.’  I sat  down*;  Zanoni  stood  behind  me  ; 
my  luck  rose ; I invariably  won.  In  fact,  I rose  from  the 
table  a rich  man.” 

“ There  can  be  no  foul  play  at  the  public  tables,  especially 
when  foul  play  would  make  against  the  bank  ? This  question 
was  put  by  Glyndon. 

“ Certainly  not,”  replied  the  count.  But  our  good  fortune 


ZANONI. 


7J 

Jvas,  indeed,  marvellous — so  extraordinary,  that  a Sicilian 
(the  Sicilians  are  all  ill-bred,  bad-tempered  fellows)  grew  angry 
and  insolent.  * Sir,’  said  he,  turning  to  my  new  friend,  ‘ you 
have  no  business  to  stand  so  near  to  the  table.  I do  not 
understand  this  ; you  have  not  acted  fairly.’  Zanoni  replied, 
with  great  composure,  that  he  had  done  nothing  against  the 
rules — that  he  was  very  sorry  that  one  man  could  not  win 
without  another  man  losing ; and  that  he  could  not  act 
unfairly,  even  if  disposed  to  do  so.  The  Sicilian  took  the 
stranger’s  mildness  for  apprehension,  and  blustered  more 
loudly.  In  fact,  he  rose  from  the  table,  and  confronted 
Zanoni  in  a manner  that,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  was  provoking 
to  any  gentleman  who  has  some  quickness  of  temper,  or  some 
skill  with  the  small  sword.” 

“And,”  interrupted  Belgioso,  “the  most  singular  part  of 
the  whole  to  me  was,  that  this  Zanoni,  who  stood  opposite  to 
where  I sat,  and  whose  face  I distinctly  saw,  made  no  remark, 
showed  no  resentment.  He  fixed  his  eye  steadfastly  on  the 
Sicilian ; never  shall  I forget  that  look ! it  is  impossible  to 
describe  it;  it  froze  the  blood  in  my  veins.  The  Sicilian 
staggered  back,  as  if  struck.  I saw  him  tremble  ; he  sank  on 
the  bench.  And  then ” 

“ Yes,  then,”  said  Cetoxa,  “ to  my  infinite  surprise,  out 
gentleman,  thus  disarmed  by  a look  from  Zanoni,  turned  his 
whole  anger  upon  me — the — but  perhaps  you  do  not  know,, 
gentlemen,  that  I have  some  repute  wuth  my  weapon  ? ” 

“ The  best  swords-man  in  Italy,”  said  Belgioso. 

“ Before  I could  guess  why  or  wherefore,”  resumed  Cetoxa, 
‘ I found  myself  in  the  garden  behind  the  house,  with  Ughelli 
(that  was  the  Sicilian’s  name)  facing  me,  and  five  or  six 
gentlemen,  the  witnesses  of  the  duel  about  to  take  place, 
around.  Zanoni  beckoned  me  aside.  ‘ This  man  will  fall,’ 
said  he.  ‘ When  he  is  on  the  ground,  go  to  him,  and  ask 
whether  he  will  be  buried  by  the  side  of  his  father  in  the 
church  of  San  Gennaro  ? ’ ‘ Do  you  then  know  his  family  ? ’ 

I asked,  with  great  surprise.  Zanoni  made  me  no  answer, 
and  the  next  moment  I was  engaged  with  the  Sicilian.  To  do 
him  justice,  his  imbrogliato  was  magnificent,  and  a swifter 
lounger  never  crossed  a sword  ; nevertheless,”  added  Cetoxa, 
with  a pleasing  modesty,  “ he  was  run  through  the  body.  I 
went  up  to  him ; he  could  scarcely  speak.  ‘ Have  you  any 
request  to  make — any  affairs  to  settle  ? ’ He  shook  his  head. 
^ Where  would  you  wish  to  be  interred  ? ’ He  pointed 


72 


ZANOm. 


towards  the  Sicilian  coast.  ‘What ! ’ said  I,  in  surprise,  'not 
by  the  side  of  your  father,  in  the  church  of  San  Gennaro  ? 
As  I spoke,  his  face  altered  terribly — he  uttered  a piercing 
shriek — the  blood  gushed  from  his  mouth,  and  he  fell  dead. 
The  most  strange  part  of  the  story  is  to  come.  We  buried 
him  in  the  church  of  San  Gennaro.  In  doing  so,  we  took  up 
his  father’s  coffin  ; the  lid  came  off  in  moving  it,  and  the 
skeleton  was  visible.  In  the  hollow  of  the  skull  we  found  a 
very  slender  wire  of  sharp  steel ; this  caused  surprise  and 
inquiry.  The  father,  who  was  rich,  and  a-miser,  had  died 
suddenly,  and  been  buried  in  haste,  owing,  it  was  said,  to  the 
heat  of  the  weather.  Suspicion  once  awakened,  the  exami- 
. nation  became  minute.  The  old  man’s  servant  was  ques- 
tioned, and  at  last  confessed  that  the  son  had  murdered  the 
sire  ; the  contrivance  was  ingenious  ; the  wire  was  so  slender, 
that  it  pierced  to  the  brain,  and  drew  but  one  drop  of  blood, 
which  the  grey  hairs  concealed.  The  accomplice  will  be 
executed.” 

“ And  Zanoni — did  he  give  evidence  ? did  he  account  for 
)) 

“ No,”  interrupted  the  count ; he  declared  that  he  had  by 
accident  visited  the  church  that  morning ; that  he  had 
observed  the  tombstone  of  the  Count  Ughelli ; that  his  guide 
had  told  him  the  count’s  son  was  in  Naples — a spendthrift 
and  a gambler.  While  we  were  at  play,  he  had  heard  thf 
count  mentioned  by  name  at  the  table;  and  when  the 
challenge  was  given  and  accepted,  it  had  occurred  to  him  to 
name  the  place  of  burial,  by  an  instinct  which  he  either  could 
not  or  would  not  account  for.” 

“ A very  lame  story,”  said  Mervale. 

“ Yes ! but  we  Italians  are  superstitious ; the  alleged 
instinct  was  regarded  by  many  as  the  whisper  of  Providence. 
The  next  day  the  stranger  became  an  object  of  universal 
interest  and  curiosity.  His  wealth,  his  manner  of  living,  his 
extraordinary  personal  beauty,  have  assisted  also  to  make 
him  the  rage ; besides,  I have  had  pleasure  in  introducing  so 
eminent  a person  to  our  gayest  cavaliers  and  fairest  ladies.” 

“ A most  interesting  narrative,”  said  Mervale,  rising. 
“ Come,  Glyndon ; shall  we  seek  our  hotel  "i — It  is  almost 
daylight.  Adieu,  signor  ! ” 

“ What  think  you  of  this  story  ? ” said  Glyndon,  as  the 
young  men  walked  homeward. 

“ Why,  it  is  very  clear  that  Zanoni  is  some  imposter — some 
clever  rogue  ; and  the  Neapolitan  shares  the  booty,  and  puffs 


ZANONI. 


73 


him  off  with  all  the  hackneyed  charlatanism  of  the  marvel- 
lous. An  unknown  adventurer  gets  into  society  by  being 
made  an  object  of  awe  and  curiosity; — he  is  more  than  ordi- 
narily handsome ; and  the  women  are  quite  content  to  re- 
ceive him  without  any  other  recommendation  than  his  own 
face  and  Cetoxa’s  fables. 

“ I cannot  agree  with  you.  Cetoxa,  though  a gambler  and 
a rake,  is  a nobleman  of  birth  and  high  repute  for  courage 
and  honor.  Besides,  this  stranger,  with  his  noble  presence, 
and  lofty  air — so  calm — so  unobtrusive — has  nothing  in  com- 
mon  with  the  forward  garrulity  of  an  impostor.” 

“ My  dear  Glyndon,  pardon  me  ; but  you  have  not  yet  ac- 
quired my  knowledge  of  the  world ! the  stranger  makes  the 
best  of  a fine  person,  and  his  grand  air  is  but  a trick  of 
the  trade.  But  to  change  the  subject — how  advances  the  love 
affair  ? ” 

“ Oh,  Viola  could  not  see  me  to-day.” 

You  must  not  marry  her.  What  would  they  all  say  at 
home ” 

“ Let  us  enjoy  the  present,”  said  Glyndon,  with  vivacity; 
“ we  are  young,  rich,  good-looking : let  us  not  think  of  to- 
morrow.” 

“ Bravo,  Glyndon ! Here  we  are  at  the  hotel.  Sleep 
sound,  and  don’t  dream  of  Signor  Zanoni.” 


CHAPTER  II. 

Preude,  giovine  aiidace  e impaziente, 

L’  occasione  offerta  avidamente.* 

Ger.  Lib.,  c.  vi.  xxix. 


Clarence  Glyndon  was  a young  man  ot  fortune,  not 
large  but  easy  and  independent.  His  parents  were  dead,  and 
his  nearest  relation  was  an  only  sister,  left  in  England  under 
the  care  of  her  aunt,  and  many  years  younger  than  himself. 
Early  in  life  he  had  evinced  considerable  promise  in  the  art 
of  painting,  and  rather  from  enthusiasm  than  any  pecuniary 
necessity  for  a profession,  he  determined  to  devote  himself  to 
a career  in  which  the  English  artist  generally  commences 
with  rapture  and  historical  composition,  to  conclude  with  av 
aricious  calculation  and  portraits  of  Alderman  Simpkins, 

* Take,  youth,  bold  and  impatient,  the  offered  occasion  eagerly. 


74 


ZANOm, 


Glyndon  was  supposed  by  his  friends  to.  possess  no  Aiconsid 
erable  genius ; but  it  was  of  a rash  and  presumptuous  order. 
He  was  averse  from  continuous  and  steady  labor,  and  his 
ambition  rather  sought  to  gather  the  fruit  than  to  plant  the 
tree.  In  common  with  many  artists  in  their  youth,  he  was 
fond  of  pleasure  and  excitement,  yielding  with  little  fore- 
thought to  whatever  impressed  his  fancy  or  appealed  to  his 
passions.  He  had  traveled  through  the  more  celebrated 
cities  of  Europe,  with  the  avowed  purpose  and  sincere  reso- 
lution of  studying  the  divine  master-pieces  of  his  art.  But  in 
each,  pleasure  had  too  often  allured  him  from  ambition,  and 
living  beauty  distracted  his  worship  from  the  senseless  can- 
vas. Brave,  adventurous,  vain,  restless,  inquisitive,  he  was 
ever  involved  in  wild  projects  and  pleasant  dangers — the 
creature  of  impulse  and  the  slave  of  imagination. 

It  was  then  the  period  when  a feverish  spirit  of  change 
was  working  its  way  to  that  hideous  mockery  of  human 
aspirations,  the  Revolution  of  France.  And  from  the  chaos 
into  which  were  already  jarring  the  sanctities  of  the  World’s 
Venerable  Belief,  arose  many  shapeless  and  unformed 
chimeras.  Need  I remind  the  reader,  that  while  that  was 
the  day  for  polished  skepticism  and  affected  wisdom,  it  was 
the  day  also  for  the  most  egregious  credulity  and  the  most 
mystical  superstitions, — the  day  in  which  magnetism  and 
magic  found  converts  among  the  disciples  of  Diderot, — when 
prophecies  were  current  in  every  mouth, — when  the  saloon  of 
of  a philosophical  deist  was  converted  into  an  Heraclea,  in 
which  necromacy  professed  to  conjure  up  the  shadow's  of  the 
dead — when  the  Crozier  and  the  Book  were  ridiculed,  and 
Mesmer  and  Cagliostro  were  believed.  In  that  Heliacal 
Rising  heralding  the  new  sun  before  which  all  vapors  were 
to  vanish,  stalked  from  their  graves  in  the  feudal  ages  all  the 
phantoms  that  had  flitted  before  the  eyes  of  Paracelsus  and 
Agrippa.  Dazzled  by  the  dawn  of  the  Revolution,  Glyndon 
was  yet  n¥)re  attracted  by  its  strange  accompaniments,  and 
natural  it  was  with  him,  as  with  others,  that  the  fancy  which 
ran  riot  amidst  the  hopes  of  a social  Utopia,  should  grasp 
with  avidity  all  that  promised,  out  of  the  dusky  tracks  of  the 
beaten  science,  the  bold  discoveries  of  some  marvellous 
Elysium. 

In  his  travels,  he  had  listened  with  vivid  interest,  at  least, 
if  not  with  implicit  belief,  to  the  wonders  told  of  each  more 
renowned  ghost-seer,  and  his  mind  was  therefore  prepared  tot 


ZAAVM  75 

the  impression  which  the  mysterious  Zanoni  at  first  sight  had 
produced  upon  it. 

There  might  be  another  cause  for  this  disposition  to 
credulity.  A remote  ancestor  of  Glyndon’s,  on  the  mother’s 
side,  had  achieved  no  inconsiderable  reputation  as  a 
philosopher  and  alchemist.  Strange  stories  were  afloat 
concerning  this  wise  progenitor.  He  was  said  to  have  lived 
to  an  age  far  exceeding  the  allotted  boundaries  of  mortal 
existence,  and  to  have  preserved  to  the  last  the  appearance 
of  middle  life.  He  had  died  at  length,  it  was  supposed  of 
grief  for  the  sudden  death  of  a great-grand-child,  the  only 
creature  he  had  ever  appeared  to  love.  The  works  of  this 
philosopher,  though  rare,  were  extant,  and  found  in  the 
library  of  Glyndon’s  home.  Their  Platonic  mysticism,  their 
bold  assertions,  the  high  promises  that  might  be  detected 
through  their  figurative  and  typical  phraseology,  had  early 
made  a deep  impression  on  the  young  imagination  of  Clar- 
ence Glyndon.  His  parents  not  alive  to  the  consequences  of 
encouraging  fancies  which  the  very  enlightenment  of  the  age 
appeared  to  them  sufficient  to  prevent  or  dispel,  were  fond,  in 
the  long  winter  nights,  of  conversing  on  the  traditional  history 
of  this  distinguished  progenitor.  And  Clarence  thrilled  with 
a fearful  pleasure  when  his  mother  playfully  detected  a strik- 
ing likeness  between  the  features  of  the  young  heir  and  the 
faded  portrait  of  the  alchemist  that  overhung  their  man- 
tel-piece, and  was  the  boast  of  their  household  and  the 
admiration  of  their-friends  : — The  child  is,  indeed,  more  often 
than  we  think  for,  “ the  father  of  the  man.” 

I have  said  that  Glyndon  was  fond  of  pleasure.  Facile,  as 
genius  ever  must  be,  to  cheerful  impression,  his  careless  Art- 
ist-life, ere  Artist-life  settles  down  to  labor,  had  wandered 
from  flower  to  flower.  He  had  enjoyed,  almost  to  the  reac- 
tion of  satiety,  the  gay  revelries  of  Naples,  when  he  fell  in 
love  with  the  face  and  voice  of  Viola  Pisani.  But  his  love, 
like  his  ambition,  was  vague  and  desultory.  It  did  not  satisfy 
his  whole  heart  and  fill  up  his  whole  nature  ; not  from  want 
of  strong  and  noble  passions,  but  because  his  mind  was  not 
yet  matured  and  settled  enough  for  their  development.  As 
there  is  one  season  for  the  blossom,  another  for  the  fruit ; so 
It  is  not  till  the  bloom  of  fancy  begins  to  fade,  that  the  heart 
ripens  to  the  passions  that  the  bloom  precedes  and  foretells. 
Joyous  alike  at  his  lonely  easel  or  amidst  his  boon  compan- 
ions, he  had  not  yet  known  enough  of  sorrow  to  love  deeply. 
For  man  must  be  disappointed  with  the  lesser  things  of  life 


76 


ZANOm, 


before  he  can  comprehend  the  full  value  of  the  greatest.  It 
is  the  shallow  sensualists  of  France,  who,  in  their  salon-\2iX\.- 
guage,  call  love  “ a folly  ; ” — Love,  better  understood,  is  wis- 
dom. Besides,  the  world  was  too  much  with  Clarence  Glyn- 
don.  His  ambition  of  art  was  associated  with  the  applause 
and  estimation  of  that  miserable  minority  of  the  Surface  that 
we  call  the  Public. 

Like  those  who  deceive,  he  was  ever  fearful  of  being  him- 
self the  dupe.  He  distrusted  the  sweet  innocence  of  Viola. 
He  could  not  venture  the  hazard  of  seriously  proposing  mar- 
riage to  an  Italian  actress  ; but  the  modest  dignity  of  the 
girl,  and  something  good  and  generous  in  his  own  nature,  had 
hitherto  made  him  shrink  from  any  more  worldly  but  less 
honorable  designs.  Thus  the  familarity  between  them  seemed 
rather  that  of  kindness  and  regard  than  passion.  He 
attended  the  theatre  ; he  stole  behind  the  scenes  to  converse 
with  her  ; he  filled  his  portfolio  with  countless  sketches  of  a 
beauty  that  charmed  him  as  an  artist  as  well  as  lover.  .And 
day  after  day  he  floated  on  through  a changing  sea  of  doubt 
and  irresolution,  of  affection  and  distrust.  The  last,  indeed, 
constantly  sustained  against  his  better  reason,  by  the  sober 
admonitions  of  Mervale,  a matter-of-fact  man  ! 

The  day  following  that  eve  on  which  this  section  of  my 
story  opens,  Glyndon  was  riding  alone  by  the  shores  of  the 
Neapolitan  sea,  on  the  other  side  of  the  Cavern  of  Posilipo. 
It  was  past  noon ; the  sun  had  lost  its  early  fervor,  and  a 
cool  breeze  sprung  up  voluptuously  from  the  sparkling  sea. 
Bending  over  a fragment  of  stone  near  the  road-side,  he  per- 
ceived the  form  of  a man ; and  when  he  approached,  he  rec- 
ognized Zanoni. 

The  Englishman  saluted  him  courteously.  Have  you 
discovered  some  antique  ” said  he,  with  a smile  ; “ they  are 
common  as  pebbles  on  this  road.” 

“ No,”  replied  Zanoni ; “ it  was  but  one  of  those  antiques 
that  have  their  date,  indeed,  from  the  beginning  of  the  world, 
but  which  Nature  eternally  withers  and  renews.”  So  saying, 
he  showed  Glyndon  a small  herb,  with  a pale  blue  flower,  and 
then  placed  it  carefully  in  his  bosom. 

“ You  are  an  herbalist  ? ” 

“ I am.” 

It  is,  I am  told,  a study  full  of  interest.” 

“ To  those  who  understand  it,  doubtless.” 

“ Is  the  knowledge,  then,  so  rare  ? ” 

“ Rare  ! The  deeper  knowledge  is  perhaps  rather,  among 


ZANOm. 


77 


the  arts,  lost  to  the  modern  philosophy  of  common-place  and 
surface  ! Do  you  imagine  there  was  no  foundation  for  those 
traditions  which  come  dimly  down  from  remoter  ages — as 
shells  now  found  on  the  mountain-tops  inform  ,us  where  the 
seas  have  been  ? What  was  the  old  Colchian  ntagic,  but  the 
minute  study  of  Nature  in  her  lowliest  works  ? What  the 
fable  of  Medea,  but  a proof  of  the  powers  that  may  be  ex- 
tracted from  the  germ  and  leaf  ? The  most  gifted  of  all  the 
Priestcrafts,  the  mysterious  sisterhoods  of  Cuth,  concerning 
whose  incantations  Learning  vainly  bewilders  itself  amidst 
the  maze  of  legends,  sought  in  the  meanest  herbs  what,  per- 
haps, the  Babylonian  Sages  explored  in  vain  amidst  the  loftiest 
stars.  Tradition  yet  tells  you  that  there  existed  a race*  who 
could  slay  their  enemies  from  afar,  without  weapon,  without 
movement.  The  herb  that  ye  tread  on  may  have  deadlier 
powers  than  your  engineers  can  give  to  their  mightiest  instru- 
ments of  war.  Can  you  guess,  that  to  these  Italian  shores — 
to  the  old  Circaean  Promontory,  came  the  Wise  from  the 
farthest  East,  to  search  for  plants  and  simples  which  your 
Pharmacists  of  the  Counter  would  fling  from  them  as  weeds  ? 
The  first  Herbalists — the  master  chemists  of  the  world — were 
the  tribe  that  the  ancient  reverence  called  by  the  name  of 
Titans.'\  I remember  once,  by  the  Hebrus,  in  the  reign 
of . But  this  talk,”  said  Zanoni,  checking  himself  ab- 

ruptly, and  with  a cold  smile,  “ serves  only  to  waste  your 
time  and  my  own.”  He  paused,  looked  steadily  at  Glyndon, 
and  continued — “ Young  man,  think  you  that  vague  curiosity 
will  supply  the  place  of  earnest  labor  t I read  your  heart. 
You  wish  to  know  me,  and  not  this  humble  herb:  but  pass 
on  ; your  desire  cannot  be  satisfied.” 

“You  have  not  the  politeness  of  your  countrymen,”  said 
Glyndon,  somewhat  discomposed.  “ Suppose  I were  desirous 
to  cultivate  your  acquaintance,  why  should  you  reject  my  ad- 
vances ? ” 

“ I reject  no  man’s  advances,”  answered  Zanoni ; “ I must 
know  them  if  they  so  desire  ; but  me^  in  return,  they  can 
never  comprehend.  If  you  ask  my  acquaintance,  it  is  yours ; 
but  I warn  you  to  shun  me.” 

“ And  why  are  you,  then,  so  dangerous  ? ” 

“ On  this  earth,  men  are  often,  without  their  own  agency, 
fated  to  be  dangerous  to  others,  If  I were  to  predict  your 

* Plut.  Symp.,  1.  5,  c.  7. 

t Syncellus,  p.  14. — “ Chemistry  the  invention  of  the  Giants.” 


ZANOm, 


fortune  by  the  vain  calculations  of  the  astrologer,  I should 
tell  you,  in  their  despicable  jargon,  that  my  planet  sat  darkly 
in  your  house  of  life.  Cross  me  not,  if  you  can  avoid  it.  I 
warn  you  now  for  the  first  time  and  last.” 

“ You  despise  the  astrologers,  yet  you  utter  a jargon  as 
mysterious  as  theirs.  I neither  gamble  nor  quarrel  j why, 
then,  should  I fear  you  ? ” 

“As  you  will;  I have  done.”  ^ 

“ Let  me  speak  frankly — your  conversation  last  night  in- 
terested and  perplexed  me.” 

“ I know  it : minds  like  yours  are  attracted  by  mystery.” 

Glyndon  was  piqued  at  these  words,  though  in  the  .tone  in 
which  they  were  spoken  there  was  no  contempt. 

“ I see  you  do  not  consider  me  worthy  of  your  friendship. 
Be  it  so.  Good  day  I ” 

Zanoni  coldly  replied  to  the  salutation ; and,  as  the  En 
lishman  rode  on,  returned  to  his  botanical  employment. 

The  same  night,  Glyndon  went,  as  usual,  to  the  theatre. 
He  was  standing  behind  the  scenes  watching  Viola,  who  was 
on  the  stage  in  one  of  her  most  brilliant  parts.  The  house 
resounded  with  applause.  Glyndon  was  transported  with  a 
young  man’s  passion  and  a young  man’s  pride  : — “ This  glo- 
rious creature,”  thought  he,  “ may  yet  be  mine.” 

He  felt,  while  thus  wrapt  in  delicious  reverie,  a slight  touch 
upon  his  shoulder : he  turned,  and  beheld  Zanoni.  “ You  are 
in  danger,”  said  the  latter,  “ Do  not  walk  home  to-night ; or 
if  you  do,  go  not  alone.” 

Before  Glyndon  recovered  from  his  surprise,  Zanoni  disap- 
peared ; and  when  the  Englishman  saw  him  again,  he  was  in 
the  box  of  one  of  the  Neapolitan  nobles,  where  Glyndon  could 
not  follow  him. 

Viola  now  left  the  stage,  and  Glyndon  accosted  her  with 
an  unaccustomed  warmth  of  gallantry.  But  Viola,  contrary  to 
her  gentle  habit,  turned  with  an  evident  impatience  from  the 
address  of  her  lover.  Taking  aside  Gionetta,  who  was  her 
constant  attendant  at  the  theatre,  she  said,  in  an  earnest 
whisper, — 

“ Oh,  Gionetta  ! He  is  here  again  ! — the  stranger  of  whom 
I spoke  to  thee  ? — and  again,  he  alone,  of  the  whole  theatre, 
v;itliholds  from  me  his  applause” 

“ Which  is  he,  my  darling  ? ” said  the  old  woman,  with 
fondness  in  her  voice.  “ He  must  indeed  be  dull — not  worth 
a thought.” 

The  actress  drew  Gionetta  nearer  to  the  stage,  and  pointed 


ZANOm. 


79 


out  to  her  a man  in  one  of  the  boxes  conspicuous  amongst 
all  else  by  the  simplicity  of  his  dress,  and  the  extraordinary 
beauty  of  his  features. 

“ Not  worth  a thought,  Gionetta  ! ” repeated  Viola — “ not 
worth  a thought ! Alas,  not  to  think  of  him,  seems  the  ab- 
sence of  thought  itself  ! ” 

The  prompter  summoned  the  Signora  Pisani.  “ Find  out 
his  name,  Gionetta,”  said  she,  moving  slowly  to  the  stage, 
and  passing  by  Glyndon,  who  gazed  at  her  with  a look  of  sor- 
rowful reproach. 

The  scene  on  which  the  actress  now  entered  was  that  of 
the  final  catastrophe,  wherein  all  her  remarkable  powers  of 
voice  and  art  were  pre-eminently  called  forth.  The  house 
hung  on  every  word  with  breathless  worship ; but  the  eyes  of 
Viola  sought  only  those  of  one  calm  and  unmoved  spectator : 
she  exerted  herself  as  if  inspired.  Zanoni  listened,  and  ob 
served  her  with  an  attentive  gaze,  but  no  approval  escaped 
his  lips ; no  emotion  changed  the  expression  of  his  cold  and 
half-disdainful  aspect.  Viola,  who  was  in  the  character  of 
one  who  loved,  but  without  return,  never  felt  so  acutely  the  part 
she  played.  Her  tears  were  truthful ; it  was  almost  too  terri- 
ble to  behold.  She  was  borne  from  the  stage  exhausted  ana 
insensible,  amidst  such  a tempest  of  admiring  rapture  as  con- 
tinental audiences  alone  can  raise.  The  crowd  stood  up — 
handkerchiefs  waved — garlands  and  flowers  were  thrown  on 
the  stage — men  wiped  their  eyes,  and  women  sobbed  aloud, 

“ By  heavens  ! ” said  a Neapolitan  of  great  rank,  “ she  has 
fired  me  beyond  endurance.  To-night,  this  very  night,  she 
shall  be  mine  ! You  have  arranged  all,  Mascari  ? ” 

“ All,  Signor.  And  the  young  Englishman  ? ” 

“ The  presuming  barbarian  ! As  I before  told  thee,  let 
him  bleed  for  his  folly.  I Avill  have  no  rival.” 

“ But  an  Englishman  ! There  is  always  a search  after  the 
bodies  of  the  English.” 

“ Fool ! is  not  the  sea  deep  enough,  or  the  earth  secret 
enough  to  hide  one  dead  man .?  Our  ruffians  are  silent  as  the 
grave  itself  : — and  I ! — who  would  dare  to  suspect,  to  arraign 

the  Prince  di ? See  to  it — this  night.  I trust  him  to  you  : 

— robbers  murder  him — you  understand  ; — the  country  swarms 
with  them ; — plunder  and  strip  him,  the  better  to  favor  such 
report.  Take  three  men ; the  rest  shall  be  my  escort.” 
Mascari  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  bowed  submissively. 
The  streets  of  Naples  were  not  then  so  safe  as  now,  and 
carriages  were  both  less  expensive  and  more  necessary.  The 


8o 


ZANOm. 


vehicle  which  was  regularly  engaged  by  the  young  actress  was 
not  to  be  found.  Gionetta,  too  aware  of  the  beauty  of  her 
mistress  and  the  number  of  her  admirers  to  contemplate  with- 
out alarm  the  idea  of  their  return  on  foot,  communicated  her 
distress  to  Glyndon,  and  he  besought  Viola,  who  recovered  but 
slowly,  to  accept  his  own  carriage.  Perhaps  before  that  night 
she  would  not  have  rejected  so  slight  a service.  Now,  for 
some  reason  or  other,  she  refused.  Glyndon,  offended,  was  re 
tiring  sullenly,  when  Gionetta  stopped  him.  “ Stay,  Signor,* 
said  she  coaxingly  ; “ the  dear  Signora  is  not  well — do  not  be 
angry  with  her;  I will  make  her  accept  your  offer.” 

Glyndon  stayed,  and  after  a few  moments  spent  in  expostu* 
lation  on  the  part  of  Gionetta,  and  resistance  on  that  of  Vi- 
ola, the  offer  was  accepted.  Gionetta  and  her  charge 
entered  the  carriage,  and  Glyndon  was  left  at  the  door  of  the 
theatre  to  return  home  on  foot.  The  mysterious  warning  of 
Zanoni  then  suddenly  occurred  to  him ; he  had  forgotten  it  in 
the  interest  of  his  lover’s  quarrel  with  Viola.  He  thought  it 
now  advisable  to  guard  against  danger  foretold  by  lips  so 
mysterious  : he  looked  around  for  some  one  he  knew ; the 
theatre  was  disgorging  its  crowds ; they  hustled,  and  jostled, 
and  pressed  upon  him ; but  he  recognized  no  familiar  counte- 
nance. While  pausing  irresolute,  he  heard  Mervale’s  voice 
calling  on  him,  and,  to  his  great  relief,  discovered  his  friend 
making  his  way  through  the  Mirong. 

“ I have  secured  you,”  said  he,  “ a place  in  the  Count  Ce- 
texa’s  carriage.  Come  along,  he  is  waiting  for  us.” 

“ How  kind  in  you  ! how  did  you  find  me  out } ” 

“ I met  Zanoni  in  the  passage — ‘ Your  friend  is  at  the  door 
of  the  theatre,’  said  he  ; ‘ do  not  let  him  go  home  on  foot  to- 
night ; the  streets  of  Naples  are  not  always  safe.’  I immedi 
ately  remembered  that  some  of  the  Calabrian  bravos  had 
been  busy  within  the  city  the  last  few  weeks,  and  suddenly 
meeting  Cetoxa — but  here  he  is.” 

Further  explanation  was  forbidden,  for  they  now  joined  the 
count.  As  Glyndon  entered  the  carriage  and  drew  up  the 
glass,  he  saw  four  men  standing  apart  by  the  pavement,  who 
seemed  to  eye  him  with  attention. 

“ Cospetto  ! ” cried  one,  “ that  is  the  Englishman  ! ” Glyn- 
don imperfectly  heard  the  exclamation  as  the  carriage  drove 
on.  He  reached  home  in  safety. 

The  familiar  and  endearing  intimacy  which  always  exists 
in  Italy  between  the  nurse  and  the  child  she  has  reared,  and 
which  the  ‘‘  Romeo  and  Juliet  ” of  Shakspeare  in  no  way  ex« 


ZAArOJVI. 


8i 


aggerates,  could  not  but  be  drawn  yet  closer  ihan  usual,  in  a 
situation  so  friendless  as  that  of  the  orphan-actress.  In  all 
that  concerned  the  weakness  of  the  heart,  Gionetta  had  large 
experience ; and  when,  three  nights  before,  Viola,  on  return- 
ing from  the  theatre,  had  wept  bitterly,  the  nurse  had  suc- 
ceeded in  extracting  from  her  a confession  that  she  had  seen 
one — not  seen  for  two  weary  and  eventful  years — but  never 
forgotten,  and  who,  alas,  had  not  evinced  the  slightest  recog- 
nition of  herself.  Gionetta  could  not  comprehend  all  the 
vague  and  innocent  emotions  that  swelled  this  sorrow  ; but 
she  resolved  them  all ; with  her  plain,  blunt  understanding,  to 
the  one  sentiment  of  love.  And  here,  she  was  well  fitted  to 
sympathize  and  console.  Confidante  to  Viola’s  entire  and 
deep  heart  she  never  could  be — for  that  heart  never  could 
have  words  for  all  its  secrets.  But  such  confidence  as  she 
could  obtain,  she  was  ready  to  repay  by  the  most  un reproving 
pity  and  the  most  ready  service. 

“ Have  you  discovered  who  he  is  ? ” asked  Viola,  as  she 
was  now  alone  in  the  carriage  with  Gionetta. 

“ Yes  ; he  is  the  celebrated  Signor  Zanoni,  about  whom  all 
the  great  ladies  have  gone  mad.  They  say  he  is  so  rich  ! — 
oh  ! so  much  richer  than  any  of  the  Inglesi ! — not  but  what 
the  Signor  Glyndon ” 

Cease  !”  interrupted  the  young  actress.  “Zanoni!  Speak 
of  the  Englishman  no  more.” 

The  carriage  was  now  entering  that  more  lonely  and  remote 
part  of  the  city  in  which  Viola’s  house  was  situated,  when  it 
suddenly  stopped. 

Gionetta,  in  alarm,  thrust  her  head  out  of  the  window,  and 
perceived,  by  the  pale  light  of  the  moon,  that  the  driver,  torn 
from  his  seat,  was  already  pinioned  in  the  arms  of  two  men  ; 
the  next  moment  the  door  was  opened  violently,  and  a tall 
figure,  masked  and  mantled,  appeared. 

“Fear  not,  fairest  Pisani,”  said  he,  gently,  “no  ill  shall 
befall  you.”  As  he  spoke,  he  wound  his  arm  round  the  form 
of  the  fair  actress,  and  endeavored  to  lift  her  from  the 
carriage.  But  Gionetta  was  no  ordinary  ally — she  thrust  back 
the  assailant  with  a force  that  astonished  him,  and  followed 
the  shock  by  a volley  of  the  most  energetic  reprobation. 

The  mask  drew  back,  and  composed  his  disordered 
mantle. 

“ By  the  body  of  Bacchus  ! ” said  he,  half  laughing,  “ she 
is  well  protected.  Here,  Luigi — Giovanni ! seize  the  hag ! — 
quick  1 — why  loiter  ye  ? ” ' 

6 


82 


ZANOm. 


The  mask  retired  fiom  the  door,  and  another  and  yet 
taller  form  presented  itself.  “ Be  calm,  Viola  Pisani,”  said 
he,  in  a low  voice ; “ with  me  you  are  indeed  safe  ! ” He 
lifted  his  mask  as  he  spoke,  and  showed  the  noble  features  of 
Zanoni. 

“ Be  calm,  be  hushed, — I can  save  you.”  He  vanished, 
leaving  Viola  lost  in  surprise,  agitation,  and  delight  There 
vere,  in  all,  nine  masks  : two  were  engaged  with  the  driver ; 
one  stood  at  the  head  of  the  carriage-horses  ; a fourth  guarded 
the  well-trained  steeds  of  the  party ; three  others  (besides 
Zanoni  and  the  one  who  had  first  accosted  Viola)  stood  apart 
by  a carriage  drawn  to  the  side  of  the  road.  To  these  three 
Zanoni  motioned  : they  advanced  he  pointed  towards  the  first 
mask,  who  was  in  fact  the  Prince  di’ , and  to  his  unspeak- 

able astonishment,  the  Prince  was  suddenly  seized  from 
behind. 

“Treason!”  he  cried.  “Treason  among  my  own  men  I 
What  means  this  ? ” 

“ Place  him  in  his  carriage  ! If  he  resist,  his  blood  be  on  his 
own  head  ! ” said  Zanoni,  calmly. 

He  approached  the  men  who  had  detained  the  coachman. 

“You  are  outnumbered  and  outwitted,”  said  he:  “join 
your  lord  ; you  are  three  men — we  six,  armed  to  the  teeth. 
Thank  our  mercy  that  we  spare  your  lives. — Go !” 

The  men  gave  way,  dismayed.  The  driver  remounted, 

“ Cut  the  traces  of  their  carriage  and  the  bridles  of  theii 
horses,”  said  Zanoni,  as  he  entered  the  vehicle  containing 
Viola,  which  now  drove  on  rapidly,  leaving  the  discomfited 
ravisher  in  a state  of  rage  and  stupor  impossible  to  describe. 

“ Allow  me  to  explain  this  mystery  to  you,”  said  Zanoni. 
“ I discovered  the  plot  against  you — no  matter  how ; I 
frustrated  it  thus  : — The  head  of  this  design  is  a nobleman, 
who  has  long  persecuted  you  in  vain.  He  and  two  of  his 
creatures  watched  you  from  the  entrance  of  the  theatre, 
having  directed  six  others  to  await  him  on  the  spot  where  you 
were  attacked  ; myself  and  five  of  my  servants  supplied 
their  place,  and  were  mistaken  for  his  own  followers.  I had 
previously  ridden  alone  to  the  spot  where  the  men  were 
waiting,  and  informed  them  that  their  master  would  not 
require  their  services  that  night.  They  believed  me,  and 
accordingly  dispersed.  I then  joined  my  own  band  whom  I 
had  left  in  the  rear;  you  know  all.  We  are  at  your  door,” 


ZANONI. 


CHAPTER  III. 

When  most  I v/ink,  then  do  mine  eyes  best  see. 

For  all  the  day  they  view  things  unrespected; 

But  when  I sleep,  in  dreams  they  look  on  thee, 

And  darkly  bright,  are  bright  in  dark  directed. 

Shakspearb. 

Zanoni  followed  the  young  Neapolitan  into  her  house  i 
Gionetta  vanished — they  were  left  alone. 

Alone,  in  that  room  so  often  filled,  in  the  old  happy  days, 
with  the  melodies  wild  of  Pisani ; and  now,  as  she  saw  this 
mysterious,  haunting,  yet  beautiful  and  stately  stranger, 
standing  on  the  very  spot  where  she  had  sat  at  her  father’s 
feet,  thrilled  and  spell-bound — she  almost  thought,  in  her 
fantastic  way  of  personifying  her  own  airy  notions,  that  that  ' 
spiritual  Music  had  taken  shape  and  life,  and  stood  before 
her  glorious  in  the  image  it  assumed.  She  was  unconscious 
all  the  while  of  her  own  loveliness.  She  had  thrown  aside 
her  hood  and  veil ; her  hair,  somewhat  disordered,  fell  over 
the  ivory  neck  which  the  dress  partially  displayed ; and,  as 
her  dark  eyes  swam  with  grateful  tears,  and  her  cheek  flushed 
with  its  late  excitement,  the  god  of  light  and  music  himself 
never,  amidst  his  Arcadian  valleys,  wooed,  in  his  mortal  guise, 
maiden  or  nymph  more  fair. 

Zanoni  gazed  at  her  with  a look  in  which  admiration 
:i.-:emed  not  unmingled  with  compassion.  H:!  muttered  a few 
words  to  himself,  and  then  addrecsed  her  aloud. 

“ Viola,  I have  saved  you  from  a great  peril ; not  from 

dishonor  only,  but,  perhaps,  from  death.  The  Prince  di , 

under  a weak  despi  t and  a venal  administration,  is  a man 
above  the  law.  He  is  capable  of  every  crime  ; but  amongst 
his  passions  he  has  such  prudence  as  belongs  to  ambition ; if 
you  were  not  to  reconcile  yourself  to  your  shame,  you  would 
never  enter  the  world  again  to  tell  your  tale.  The  ravisher 
has  no  heart  for  repentance,  but  he  has  a hand  that  can 
murder.  I have  saved  you,  Viola.  Perhaps,  you  would  ask 
me  wherefore  ? ” Zanoni  paused,  and  smiled  mournfully,  as 
he  added,  “ You  will  not  wrong  me  by  the  thought  that  he 
who  has  preserved  is  not  less  selfish  than  he  who  would  have 
Injured.  Orphan,  I do  not  speak  to. you  in  language  of  your 


84 


ZANOm. 


wooers ; enough  that  I know  pity,  and  am  not  ungrateful  for 
affection.  Why  blush,  why  tremble  at  the  word  } I read  your 
heart  while  I speak,  and  I see  not  one  thought  that  should 
give  you  shame.  I say  not  that  you  love  me  yet ; happily,  the 
fancy  may  be  roused  long  before  the  heart  is  touched.  But 
it  has  been  my  fate  to  fascinate  your  eye,  to  influence  your 
imagination.  It  is  to  warn  you  against  what  could  bring  you 
but  sorrow,  as  I warned  you  once  to  prepare  for  sorrow  itself, 
that  I am  now  your  guest.  The  Englishman,  Glyndon,  loves 
thee  well — better,  perhaps,  than  I can  ever  love : if  not 
worthy  of  thee  yet,  he  has  but  to  know  thee  more  to  deserve 
thee  better.  He  may  wed  thee,  he  may  bear  thee  to  his  own 
free  and  happy  land,  the  land  of  thy  mother’s  kin.  Forget 
me ; teach  thyself  to  return  and  deserve  his  love ; and  I tell 
thee  that  thou  wilt  be  honored  and  happy.” 

Viola  listened  with  silent,  inexpressible  emotion,  and  burn- 
ing blushes,  to  this  strange  address,  and  when  he  had  conclu- 
ded, she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands^  and  wept.  And 
yet,  much  as  his  words  were  calculated  to  humble  or  irritate, 
to  produce  indignation  or  excite  shame,  those  were  not  the 
feelings  with  which  her  eyes  streamed  and  her  heart  swelled. 
The  woman  at  that  moment  was  lost  in  the  child  : and  as  a 
child  with  all  its  exacting,  craving,  yet  innocent  desire  to  be 
loved,  weeps  in  unrebuking  sadness  when  its  affection  is  thrown 
austerely  back  upon  itself — so,  without  anger  and  without 
shame,  wept  Viola. 

Zanoni  contemplated  her  thus,  as  her  graceful  head,  shad- 
owed by  its  redundant  tresses,  bent  before  him  : and  after  a 
moment’s  pause  he  drew  near  to  her,  and  said,  in  a voice  of 
the  most  soothing  sweetness,  and  with  a half  smile  upon  his 
lip— 

“Do  you  remember,  when  I told  you  to  struggle  for  the 
light,  that  I pointed  for  example  to  the  resolute  and  earnest 
tree  : I did  not  tell  you,  fair  child,  to  take  example  by  the 
moth,  that  would  soar  to  the  star,  but  falls  scorched  beside 
the  lamp.  Come,  I will  talk  to  thee.  This  Englishman ” 

Viola  drew  herself  away,  and  wept  yet  more  passionately. 

“This  Englishman  is  of  thine  own  years,  not  far  above 
thine  own  rank.  Thou  mayst  share  his  thoughts  in  life — thou 
mayst  sleep  beside  him  in  the  same  grave  in  death  ! And  I, 
but  that  view  of  the  future  should  concern  us  not.  Look  into 
thy  heart,  and  thou  wilt  see  that  till  again  my  shadow  crossed 
thy  path,  there  had  grown  up  for  this  thine  equal,  a pure  and 
calm  affection  that  would  have  ripened  into  love,  Hast  thou 


ZAATOJVI.  85 

never  pictured  to  thyself  a home  in  which  thy  partner  was  thy 
young  wooer?” 

Never  ! ” said  Viola,  with  sudden  energy,  “ never,  but  to 
feel  that  such  was  not  the  fate  ordained  me.  And,  oh  ! ” she 
continued,  rising  suddenly,  and  putting  aside  the  tresses  that 
veiled  her  face,  she  fixed  her  eyes  upon  the  questioner  ; “ and, 
oh ! whoever  thou  art  that  thus  wouldst  read  my  soul  and 
shape  my  future,  do  not  mistake  the  sentiment  that,  that” — 
(she  faltered  an  instant,  and  went  on  with  downcast  eyes) 
“ that  has  fascinated  my  thoughts  to  thee.  Do  not  think  that 
I could  nourish  a love  unsought  and  unreturned.  It  is  not 
love  that  I feel  for  thee,  stranger.  Why  should  I ? Thou  hast 
never  spoken  to  me  but  to  admonish — and  now,  to  wound!” 
Again  she  paused,  again  her  voice  faltered ; the  tears  trembled 
on  her  eyelids  ; she  brushed  them  away  and  resumed.  “No, 
not  love — if  that  be  love  which  I have  heard  and  read  of, 
and  sought  to  simulate  on  the  stage, — but  a more  solemn,  fear- 
ful, and,  it -seems  to  me,  almost  preternatural  attraction,  which 
makes  me  associate  thee,  waking  or  dreaming,  with  images 
that  at  once  charm  and  awe.  Thinkest  thou,  if  it  were  love, 
that  I could  speak  to  thee  thus  ? that  ” (she  raised  her  looks 
suddenly  to  his)  “ mine  eyes  could  thus  search  and  confront 
thine  own  ? Stranger,  I ask  but  at  times  to  see,  to  hear  thee  ! 
Stranger,  talk  not  to  me  of  others.  Forewarn,  rebuke,  bruise 
my  heart,  reject  the  not  unworthy  gratitude  it  offers  thee,  if 
thou  wilt,  but  come  not  always  to  me  as  an  omen  of  grief  and 
trouble.  Sometimes  have  I seen  thee  in  my  dreams  surroun- 
ded by  shapes  of  glory  and  light ; thy  looks  radiant  with  a 
celestial  joy  which  they  wear  not  now.  Stranger,  thou  hast 
saved  me,  and  I thank  and  bless  thee  ! Is  that  also  an  homage 
thou  wouldst  reject  ? ” With  these  words,  she  crossed  her 
arms  meekly  on  her  bosom,  and  inclined  lowlily  before  him. 
Nor  did  her  humility  seem  unwomanly  or  abject,  nor  that  of 
mistress  to  lover,  of  slave  to  master,  but  rather  of  a child  to 
its  guardian,  of  a neophyte  of  the  old  religion  to  her  priest. 
Zanoni’s  brow  was  melancholy  and  thoughtful.  He  looked  at 
her  with  a strange  expression  of  kindness,  of  sorrow,  yet  of 
tender  affection,  in  his  eyes  ; but  his  lips  were  stern,  and  his 
voice  cold,  as  he  replied^ — 

“ Do  you  know  what  you  ask,  Viola?  Do  you  guess  the 
danger  to  yourself — perhaps  to  both  of  us — which  you  court  ? 
Do  you  know  that  my  life,  separated  from  the  turbulent  herd 
of  men,  is  one  worship  of  the  Beautiful,  from  which  I seek  to 
banish  what  the  Beautiful  inspires  in  most  ? As  a calamity,  I 


86 


ZANONL 


shun  what  to  man  seems  the  fairest  fate — the  love  of  the 
daughters  of  earth.  At  present  I can  warn  and  save  thee  from 
many  evils  : if  I saw  more  of  thee,  would  the  power  still  be 
mine  ? You  understand  me  not.  What  I am  about  to  add,  it 
will  be  easier  to  comprehend.  I bid  thee  banish  from  thy 
heart  all  thought  of  me,  but  as  one  whom  the  Future  cries 
aloud  to  thee  to  avoid.  Glyndon,  if  thou  acceptest  his  hom- 
age, will  love  thee  till  the  tomb  closes  upon  both.  I too,”  he 
added  with  emotion,  “ I,  too,  might  love  thee  ! ” 

“ You  ! ” cried  Viola,  with  the  vehemence  of  a sudden  im- 
pulse of  delight,  of  rapture,  which  she  could  not  suppress ; 
but  the  instant  after,  she  would  have  given  worlds  to  recall 
the  exclamation. 

“ Yes,  Viola,  I might  love  thee  ; but  in  that  love  what  sor- 
row and  what  change  ! The  flower  gives  perfume  to  the  rock  on 
whose  heart  it  grows.  A little  while,  and  the  flower  is  dead  ; 
but  the  rock  still  endures  ; — the  snow  at  its  breast — the  sun- 
shine on  its  summit.  Pause — think  well.  Danger  besets  thee 
yet.  For  some  days  thou  shalt  be  safe  from  thy  remorseless 
persecutor  ; but  the  hour  soon  comes  when  thy  only  security 
will  be  in  flight.  If  the  Englishman  love  thee  worthily;  thy 
honor  will  be  dear  to  him  as  his  own  ; if  not,  there  are  yet 
other  lands  where  love  will  be  truer,  and  virtue  less  in  danger 
from  fraud  and  force.  Farewell  : my  own  destiny  I cannot 
foresee  except  through  cloud  and  shadow.  I know,  at  least, 
that  we  shall  meet  again  ; but  learn,  ere  then,  sweet  flower, 
that  there  are  more  genial  resting-places  than  the  rock.” 

He  turned  as  he  spoke,  and  gained  the  outer  door  where 
Gionetta  discreetly  stood.  Zanoni  lightly  laid  his  hand  on 
her  arm.  With,  the  gay  accent  of  a jesting  cavalier,  he  said — 
“ The  Signor  Glyndon  wooes  your  mistress  : he  may  wed 
her.  I know  your  love  for  her.  Disabuse  her  of  any  caprice 
,for  me.  I am  a bird  ever  on  the  wing.” 

He  dropped  a purse  into  Gionetta’s  hand  as  he  spoke, 
and  was  gone. 


ZANONL 


87 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Les  intelligences  Celestes  se  font  voir,  et  se  communiquent  plus  volontiers,  dans  Ic 
silence,  et  dans  la  tranquillite  de  la  solitude.  On  aura  done  une  petite  chambre 
ou  un  cabinet  secret,  &c.* — Les  Clavicules  de  Rabbi  Salomon^  chap.  3 ; tra- 
duites  exactement  duiexte  Hebreu  par  M.  Pierre  Morissoneur^  Professeur  des 
Langues  Orientates^  et  Sectateur  de  la  Philosophie  des  Sages  Cabalistes. 
{^Manuscript  Translation.) 

The  Palace  retained  by  Zanoni  was  in  one  of  the  less 
frequented  quarters  of  the  city. — It  still  stands,  now  ruined 
and  dismantled,  a monument  of  the  splendor  of  a chivalry 
long  since  vanished  from  Naples,  with  the  lordly  races  of  the 
Norman  and  the  Spaniard. 

As  he  entered  the  rooms  reserved  for  his  private  hours,  two 
Indians,  in  the  dress  of  their  country,  received  him  at  the 
threshold  with  the  grave  salutations  of  the  East.  They  had 
accompanied  him  from  the  far  lands  in  which,  according  to 
rumor,  he  had  for  many  years  fixed  his  home.  But  they  could 
communicate  nothing  to  gratify  curiosity  or  justify  suspicion. 
They  spoke  no  language  but  their  own.  With  the  exception 
of  these  two,  his  princely  retinue  was  composed  of  the  native 
hirelings  of  the  city ; whom  his  lavish  but  imperious  generosity 
made  the  implicit  creatures  of  his  will.  In  his  house,  and  in 
his  habits,  so  far  as  they  were  seen,  there  was  nothing  to 
account  for  the  rumors  which  were  circulated  abroad.  Pie 
was  not,  as  we  are  told  of  Albertus  Magnus  or  the  great 
Leonardo  da  Vinci,  served  by  airy  forms  ; and  no  brazen 
image,  the  invention  of  magic  mechanism,  communicated  to 
him  the  influences  of  the  stars.  None  of  the  apparatus  of  the 
alchemist — the  crucible,  and  the  metals — ^gave  solemnity  to 
his  chambers,  or  accounted  for  his  wealth ; nor  did  he  even 
seem  to  interest  himself  in  those  serener  studies  which  might 
be  supposed  to  color  his  peculiar  conversation  with  abstract 
notions,  and  often  with  recondite  learning.  No  books  spoke 
to  him  in  his  solitude  ; and  if  ever  he  had  drawn  from  them 
his  knowledge,  it  seemed  now  that  the  only  page  he  read  was 
the  wide  one  of  Nature,  and  that  a capacious  and  startling 
memory  supplied  the  rest.  Yet  was  there  one  exception  to 

* The  Celestial  Intelligences  exhibit  and  explain  themselves  most  freely  in 
silence,  and  the  tranquillity  of  solitude.  One  will  hare  then  ^ little  chamber,  »r  a 
secret  cabinet,  &c. 


88 


ZANOm. 


what  in  all  else  seemed  customary  and  common-place,  and 
which,  according  to  the  authority  we  have  prefixed  to  this 
chapter,  might  indicate  the  follower  of  the  occult  sciences. 
Whether  at  Rome  or  Naples,  or,  in  fact,  wherever  his  abode, 
he  selected  one  room  remote  from  the  rest  of  the  house,  which 
was  fastened  by  a lock  scarcely  larger  than  the  seal  of  a ring, 
yet  which  sufficed  to  baffle  the  most  cunning  instrument  of 
the  locksmith:  at  least,  one  of  his  servants,  prompted  by 
irresistible  curiosity,  had  made  the  attempt  in  vain ; and 
though  he  had  fancied  it  was  tried  in  the  most  favorable  time 
for  secrecy — not  a soul  near — in  the  dead  of  night — Zanonl 
himself  absent  from  home,  yet  his  superstition,  or  his 
conscience,  told  him  the  reason  why  the  next  day  the  Major 
Domo  quietly  dismissed  him.  He  compensated  himself  for 
this  misfortune  by  spreading  his  own  story,  with  a thousand 
amusing  exaggerations.  He  declared  that,  as  he  approached 
the  door,  invisible  hands  seemed  to  pluck  him  away ; and  that 
when  he  touched  the  lock,  he  was  struck  as  by  a palsy  to  the 
ground.  One  surgeon,  who  heard  the  tale,  observed,  to  the 
distaste  of  the  wonder-mongers,  that  possibly  Zanoni  made  a 
dexterous  use  of  electricity.  Howbeit,  this  room  once  so 
secured,  was  never  entered  save  by  Zanoni  himself. 

The  solemn  voice  of  Time,  from  the  neighboring  church,  at 
last  aroused  the  lord  of  the  palace  from  the  deep  and  motion- 
less reverie,  rather  resembling  a trance  than  thought,  in  which 
his  mind  was  absorbed. 

“ It  is  one  more  sand  out  of  the  mighty  hour  glass,”  said 
he,  murmuringly,  “ and  yet  time  neither  adds  to,  nor  steals 
from,  an  atom  in  the  Infinite ! — Soul  of  mine,  the  luminous, 
the  Augoeides,*  why  descendest  thou  from  thy  sphere — ^why 
from  the  eternal,  star-like,  and  passionless  Serene,  shrinkest 
thou  back  to  the  mists  of  the  dark  sarcophagus  ? How  long, 
too  austerely  thought  that  companionship  with  the  things  that 
die  brings  with  it  but  sorrow  in  its  sweetness,  hast  thou  dwelt 
contented  with  thy  majestic  solitude  ! ” 

As  he  thus  murmured,  one  of  the  earliest  birds  that  salute 
the  dawn  broke  into  sudden  song  from  amidst  the  orange- 
trees  in  the  garden  below  his  casement ; and  as  suddenly, 
song  answered  song ; the'  mate,  awakened  at  the  note,  gave 

* Augoeides — a word  favored  by  the  mystical  Platonists, — Marc.  Ant.,  lib.  2. 
— The  sense  of  which  beautiful  sentence  of  the  old  philosophy,  which,  as  Bayle  well 
observes,  in  his  article,  on  Cornelius  Agrippa,  the  modern  QuieUsts  have  (however 
impotently)  sought  to  imitate,  is  to  the  effect  that  “ the  sphere  the  soul  is  lumin- 
ous, when  nothing  external  has  contact  with  the  soul  itself ; but  when  lit  by  its  own 
light,  it  sees  the  truth  of  aD  things  and  the  truth  centered  in  itself.” 


ZANOm. 


89 


back  its  happy  answer  to  the  bird.  He  listened  ; and  not  the 
soul  he  had  questioned,  but  the  heart  replied.  He  rose,  and 
with  restless  strides  paced  the  narrow  floor.  “ Away  from 
this  world ! ” he  exclaimed  at  length,  with  an  impatient  tone. 
“ Can  no  time  loosen  its  fatal  ties  1 As  the  attraction  that 
holds  the  earth  in  space,  is  the  attraction  that  fixes  the  soul 
^o  earth.  Away,  from  the  dark  grey  planet!  Break,  ye 
fetters  : arise,  ye  wings  1 ” 

He  passed  through  the  silent  galleries,  and  up  the  lofty 
siairs,  and  entered  the  secret  chamber.  * * * * 


CHAPTER  V. 

“ I and  my  fellows 

Are  ministers  of  Fate.” 

The  Tempest. 

The  next  day,  Glyndon  bent  his  steps  towards  Zanoni’s 
palace.  The  young  man’s  imagination,  naturally,  in- 
flammable, was  singularly  excited  by  the  little  he  had  seen 
and  heard  of  this  strange  being — a spell,  he  could  neither 
master  nor  account  for,  attracted  him  towards  the  stranger. 
Zanoni’s  power  seemed  mysterious  and  great,  his  motives 
kindly  and  benevolent,  yet  his  manners  chilling  and  repellant. 
Why  at  one  moment  reject  Glyndon’s  acquaintance,  at  another 
save  him  from  danger  ? How  had  Zanoni  thus  acquired  the 
knowledge  of  enemies  unknown  to  Glyndon  himself  ? His 
interest  was  deeply  roused,  his  gratitude  appealed  to ; he 
resolved  to  make  another  effort  to  conciliate  the  ungracious 
herbalist. 

The  signor  was  at  home,  and  Glyndon  was  admitted 
into  a lofty  saloon,  where  in  a few  moments  Zanoni  joined 
him. 

“ I am  come  to  thank  you  for  your  warning  last  night,” 
said  he,  “ and  to  entreat  you  to  complete  my  obligation  by 
informing  me  of  the  quarter  to  which  I may  look  for  enmity 
and  peril.” 

“You  are  a gallant,”  said  Zanoni,  with  a smile,  and  in  the 
English  language,  “ and  do  you  know  so  little  of  the  south  as 
not  to  be  aware  that  gallants  have  always  rivals  } ” 

“ Are  you  serious  ? ” said  Glyndon,  coloring. 

“ Most  serious.  You  love  Viola  Pisani ; you  have  for  rival 


90 


ZANONI. 


one  of  the  most  powerful  and  relentless  of  the  Neapolitan 
princes.  Your  danger  is  indeed  great.’’ 

“ But  pardon  me  ! — how  came  it  known  to  you } ” 

I give  no  account  of  myself  to  mortal  men/’  replied 
Zanoni,  haughtily  . “ and  to  me  it  matters  nothing  whether  you 
regard  or  scorn  my  warning.” 

“ Well,  if  I may  not  question  you,  be  it  so ; — but  at  least 
advise  me  what  to  do.” 

“ Would  you  follow  my  advice  ? ” 

“ Why  not  ? ” 

“ Because  you  are  constitutionally  brave  ; you  are  fond  ot 
excitement  and  mystery  ; you  like  to  be  the  hero  of  a romance 
Were  I to  advise  you  to  leave  Naples,  would  you  do  so  while 
Naples  contains  a foe  to  confront,  or  a mistress  to  pursue  ?” 
“You  are  right,”  said  the  young  Englishman,  with  energy. 
“ No  ! and  you  cannot  reproach  me  for  such  a resolution.” 

“ But  there  is  another  course  left  to  you  : do  you  love  Viola 
Pisani  truly  and  fervently  ? if  so,  marry  her,  and  take  a bride 
to  your  native  land.” 

“ Nay,”  answered  Glyndon,  embarrassed,  “ Viola  is  not 
of  my  rank.  Her  profession,  too,  is — in  short,  I am  enslaved 
by  her  beauty,  but  I cannot  wed  her.” 

Zanoni  frowned. 

“ Your  love,  then,  is  but  selfish  lust,  and  I advise  you  to 
your  own  happiness  no  more.  Young  man.  Destiny  is  less 
inexorable  than  it  appears.  The  resources  of  the  great  Ruler 
of  the  Universe  are  not  so  scanty  and  so  stern  as  to  deny  to 
Mien  the  divine  privilege  of  Free  Will ; all  of  us  can  carve  out 
our  own  way,  and  God  can  make  our  very  contradictions 
harmonize  with  His  solemn  ends.  You  have  before  you  an 
option.  Honorable  and  generous  love  may  even  now  work 
out  your  happiness,  and  effect  your  escape  ; a frantic  and  sel- 
fish passion  will  but  lead  you  to  misery  and  doom.” 

“ Do  you  pretend  then  to  read  the  Future  ? ” 

“ I have  said  all  that  it  pleases  me  to  utter.” 

“ While  you  assume  the  moralist  to  me.  Signor  Zanoni,” 
said  Glyndon,  with  a smile,  “ are  you  yourself  so  indifferent 
to  youth  and  beauty,  as  to  act  the  stoic  to  its  allurements  ? ” 
“ If  it  were  necessary  that  practice  square  with  precept,” 
said  Zanoni,  with  a bitter  smile,  “ our  monitors  would  be  but 
few.  The  conduct  of  the  individual  can  affect  but  a small 
circle  beyond  himself  ; the  permanent  good  or  evil  that  he 
works  to  others  lies  rather  in  the  sentiments  he  can  diffuse. 
His  acts  are  limited  and  momentary ; his  sentiments  may 


zanont. 


9i 

pervade  the  universe,  and  inspire  generations  till  the  day  of 
doom.  All  our  virtues,  all  our  laws,  are  drawn  from  books 
and  maxims,  which  are  sentiments,  not  from  deeds.  In 
conduct,  Julian  had  the  virtues  of  a Christian,  and 
Constantine  the  vices  of  a Pagan.  The  sentiments  of  Julian 
reconverted  thousands  to  Paganism  ; those  of  Constantine 
helped^  under  Heaven’s  will,  to  bow  to  Christianity  the 
nations  of  the  earth.  In  conduct,  the  humblest  fisherman 
on  yonder  sea,  who  believes  in  the  miracles  of  San  Gennaro, 
may  be  a better  man  than  Luther  ; to  the  sentiments  of  Luther 
the  mind  of  modern  Europe  is  indebted  for  the  noblest 
revolutions  it  has  known.  Our  opinions,  young  Englishman, 
are  the  angel  part  of  us  ; our  acts,  .the  earthly.” 

“ You  have  reflected  deeply  for  an  Italian,”  said  Glyndon. 
Who  told  you  that  I was  an  Italian  ? ” 

Are  you  not  ? And  yet,  when  I hear  you  speak  my  own 

language  as  a native,  I ” 

“ Tush ! ” interrupted  Zanoni,  impatiently  turning  away. 
Then,  after  a pause,  he  resumed  in  a mild  voice — “ Glyndon, 
do  you  renounce  Viola  Pisani  ? Will  you  take  some  days  to 
consider  what  I have  said  ? ” 

**  Renounce  her — never ! ” 

“ Then  you  will  marry  her  ? ” 

“ Impossible ! ” 

“ Be  it  so  ; she  will  then  renounce  you.  I tell  you  that 
you  have  rivals.” 

“ Yes  ; the  Prince  di ; but  I do  not  fear  him.” 

You  have  another,  whom  you  will  fear  more.” 

“ And  who  is  he  ? 

“ Myself.” 

Glyndon  turned  pale,  and  started  from  his  seat. 

“ You,  Signor  Zanoni ! — you — and  you  dare  to  tell  me 
so  ? ” 

Dare  ! Alas  ! there  are  times  when  I wish  that  I could 
fear.” 

These  arrogant  words  were  not  uttered  arrogantly,  but  in 
a tone  of  the  most  mournful  dejection.  Glyndon  was  enraged, 
confounded,  and  yet  awed.  However,  he  h^d  a brave  English 
heart  within  his  breast,  and  he  recovered  himself  quickly. 

“ Signor,”  said  he  calmly,  “ I am  not  to  be  duped  by  these 
solemn  phrases  and  these  mystical  assumptions.  You  may 
have  powers  which  I cannot  comprehend  or  emulate,  or  you 
may  be  but  a keen  impostor.” 

“ Well,  proceed  ! ” 


92 


ZAAuiVI. 


“ I mean,  then,”  continued  Glyndon,  resolutely,  though 
somewhat  disconcerted,  “ I mean  you  to  understand,  that, 
though  I am  not  to  be  persuaded  or  compelled  by  a stranger 
to  marry  Viola  Pisani,  I am  not  the  less  determined  never 
tamely  to  yield  her  to  another.” 

Zanoni  looked  gravely  at  the  young  man,  whose  sparkling 
eyes  and  heightened  color  testified  the  spirit  to  support  his 
words,  and  replied — ‘‘  So  bold  ! well ; it  becomes  you.  But 
take  my  advice  : wait  yet  nine  days,  and  tell  me  then  if  you 
will  marry  the  fairest  and  the  purest  creature  that  ever  crossed 
your  path.” 

“ But  if  you  love  her,  why — why ” 

Why  am  I anxious  that  she  should  wed  another  ? to  save 
her  from  myself ! Listen  to  me.  That  girl,  humble  and 
uneducated  though  she  be  has  in  her  the  seeds  of  the  most 
lofty  qualities  and  virtues.  She  can  be  all  to  the  man  she 
loves — all  that  man  can  desire  in  wife.  Her  soul,  developed 
by  affection,  will  elevate  your  own  ; it  will  influence  your 
fortunes,  exalt  your  destiny  ; you  will  become  a great  and  a 
prosperous  man.  If,  on  the  contrary,  she  fall  to  me,  I know 
not  what  may  be  her  lot ; but  I know  that  there  is  an  ordeal 
which  few  can  pass,  and  which  hitherto  no  woman  has  sur- 
vived.” 

As  Zanoni  spoke,  his  face  became  colorless,  and  there  was 
something  in  this  voice  that  froze  the  warm  blood  of  the 
listener. 

“ What  is  this  mystery  which  surrounds  you  ? ” exclaimed 
Glyndon,  unable  to  repress  his  emotion.  “ Are  you,  in  truth, 
different  from  other  men  ? Have  you  passed  the  boundary  of 
lawful  knowledge  ? Are  you,  as  some  declare,  a sorcerer,  or 
only  a ” 

“ Hush  ! ” interrupted  Zanoni,  gently,  and  with  a smile  ot 
singular  but  melancholy  sweetness  : “ have  you  earned  the 
right  to  ask  me  these  questions  ? Though  Italy  still  boast  an 
Inquisition,  its  power  is  riveled  as  a leaf  which  the  first  wind 
shall  scatter.  The  days  of  torture  and  persecution  are  over  ; 
and  a man  may  live  as  he  pleases,  and  talk  as  it  suits  him, 
without  fear  of  the  stake  and  the  rack.  Since  I can  defy  per- 
secution, pardon  me  if  I do  not  yield  to  curiosity.” 

Glyndon  blushed,  and  rose.  In  spite  of  his  love  for  Viola, 
and  his  natural  terror  of  such  a rival,  he  felt  himself  irresis- 
tibly drawn  towards  the  very  man  he  had  most  cause  to  sus^ 
pect  and  dread.  He  held  out  his  hand  to  Zanoni,  saying 


ZAAT0JV7. 


9J 

■'Well,  then,  if  we  are  to  be  rivals,  our  swords  must  settle  our 
fights  : till  then,  I would  fain  be  friends.” 

“ Friends  ! You  know  not  what  you  ask,” 

“ Enigmas  again  ! ” 

“ Enigmas  ! ” cried  Zanoni,  passionately,  “ ay  ! can  you  dare 
to  solve  them  ? Not  till  then  could  1 give  you  my  right  hand, 
and  call  you  friend.” 

“ I could  dare  everything  and  all  things  for  the  attainment 
of  superhuman  wisdom,”  said  Glyndon  ; and  his  countenance 
was  lighted  up  with  wild  and  intense  enthusiasm. 

Zanoni  observed  him  in  thoughtful  silence. 

“ The  seeds  of  the  ancestor  live  in  the  son,”  he  muttered ; 

he  may — yet” He  broke  off  abruptly  ; then  speaking 

aloud — “ Go,  Glyndon,”  said  he  ; we  shall  meet  again,  but  I 
will  not  ask  your  answer  till  the  hour  presses  for  decis- 


CHAPTER  VI. 

’Tis  certain  that  this  man  has  an  estate  of  fifty  thousand  livres,  and  seems  to  be  a 
person  of  very  great  accomplishments.  But  then,  if  he’s  a Wizard,  are  wizards 
so  devoutly  given  as  this  man  seems  to  be  ? — In  short,  I could  make  neither  head 
nor  tail  on’t. — The  Count  de  Gabalis,  Translation  affixed  to  the  second  Edi- 
tion of  the  “ Rafe  of  the  LockT 

Of  all  the  weaknesses  which  little  men  rail  against,  there  is 
none  that  they  are  more  apt  to  ridicule  than  the  tendency  to 
believe.  And  of  all  the  signs  of  a corrupt  heart  and  a feeble 
head,  the  tendency  of  incredulity  is  the  surest. 

Real  philosophy  seeks  rather  to  solve  than  to  deny.  While 
we  hear,  every  day,  the  small  pretenders  to  science  talk  of  the 
absurdities  of  Alchemy  and  the  dream  of  the  Philosopher’s 
Stone,  a more  erudite  knowledge  is  aware  that  by  Alchemists 
the  greatest  discoveries  in  science  have  been  made,  and  much 
which  still  seems  abstruse,  had  we  the  key  to  the  mystic 
phraseology  they  were  compelled  to  adopt,  might  open  the 
way  to  yet  more  noble  acquisitions.  The  Philosopher’s  Stone 
itself  has  seemed  no  visionary  chimera  to  some  of  the  soundest 
chemists  that  even  the  present  century  has  produced.*  Man 

* Mr.  D’Israeli,  in  his  “ Curiosities  of  Literature”  (Article  Alchem),  after  quoting 
the  sanguine  judgments  of  modern  chemists,  as  to  the  transmutation  of  metals,  ob- 
serves, of  one  yet  greater  and  more  recent  than  those  to  which  Glyndon’s  thoughts 
could  have  referred — “ Sir  Humphrey  Davy  told  me  that  he  did  not  consider  this 
undiscovered  art  impossible ; but  should  it  ever  be  discovered,  it  would  certainly  b« 
useless.” 


94 


ZAN'Om. 


cannot  contradict  the  Laws  of  Nature.  But  are  all  the  Lawi 
of  Nature  yet  discovered  ? 

“ Give  me  a proof  of  your  Art,”  says  the  rational  inquirer 
“ When  I have  seen  the  effect,  I will  endeavor,  with  you,  to 
ascertain  the  causes.” 

Somewhat  to  the  above  effect  were  the  first  thoughts  of 
Clarence  Glyndon  on  quitting  Zanoni.  But  Clarence  Glyndon 
was  no  “ rational  inquirer.”  The  more  vague  and  mysterious 
the  language  of  Zanoni,  the  more  it  imposed  upon  him.  A 
proof  would  have  been  something  tangible,  with  which  he 
would  have  sought  to  grapple.  And  would  have  only  dis- 
appointed his  curio^ty  to  find  the  supernatural  reduced  to 
Nature.  He  endeavored,  in  vain,  at  some  moments  rousing 
himself  from  credulity  to  the  skepticism  he  deprecated,  to 
reconcile  what  he  had  heard  with  the  nrobabie  motives  and  de- 
signs of  an  impostor.  Unlike  Mesmer  and  Cagiiostro,  Zanoni, 
whatever  his  pretentions,  did  not  make  them  a source  of  profit; 
nor  was  Glyndon’s  position  or  rank  in  life  sufficient  to  render 
any  influence  obtained  over  his  mind,  subservient  to  schemes, 
whether  of  avarice  or  ambition.  Yet,  ever  and  anon,  with 
the  suspicion  of  worldly  knowledge,  he  strove  to  persuade 
himself  that  Zanoni  had  at  least  some  sinister  object  in  in- 
ducing him  to  what  his  English  pride  and  manner  of  thought 
considered  a derogatory  marriage  with  the  poor  actress. 
Might  not  Viola  and  the  Mystic  be  in  league  with  each  other.? 
Might  not  all  this  jargon  of  prophecy  and  menace  be  but 
artifices  to  dupe  him  ? He  felt  an  unjust  resentment  towards 
Viola,  at  her  having  secured  such  an  ally.  But  with  that  re- 
sentment was  mingled  a natural  jealousy.  Zanoni  threatened 
him  with  rivalry.  Zanoni,  who,  whatever  his  character  or  his 
arts,  possessed  at  least  all  the  external  attributes  that  dazzle 
and  command.  Impatient  of  his  own  doubts,  he  plunged  in- 
to the  society  of  such  acquaintances  as  he  had  made  at  Naples 
— chiefly  artists,  like  himself,  men  of  letters,  and  the  rich 
commercialists,  who  were  already  vying  with  the  splendor, 
though  debarred  from  the  privileges,  of  the  nobles.  From 
these  he  heard  much  of  Zanoni,  already  with  them,  as  with 
the  idler  classes,  an  object  of  curiosity  and  speculation. 

He  had  noticed,  as  a thing  remarkable,  that  Zanoni  had 
conversed  with  him  in  English,  and  with  a command  of  the 
language  so  complete,  that  he  might  have  passed  for  a native. 
On  the  other  hand,  in  Italian,  Zanoni  was  equally  at  ease. 
Glyndon  found  that  it  was  the  same  in  languages  less  usu 


ZANOm, 


95 


ally  learned  by  foreigners.  A painter  from  Sweden,  who  had 
conversed  with  him,  was  positive  that  he  was  a Swede ; and  a 
merchant  from  Constantinople,  who  had  sold  some  of  his 
^oods  to  Zanoni,  professed  his  conviction  that  none  but  a 
Turk,  or  at  least  a native  of  the  East,  could  have  so  thoroughly 
mastered  the  soft  Oriental  intonations.  Yet  in  all  these 
languages,  when  they  came  to  compare  their  several  recob 
lections,  there  was  a slight,  scarce  preceptible  distinction,  not 
in  pronunciation,  nor  even  accent,  but  in  the  key  and  chime 
as  it  were,  of  the  voice,  between  himself  and  a^native.  This 
faculty  was  one  which,  Glyndon  called  to  mind,  that  sect, 
whose  tenets  and  powers  have  never  been  more  than  most 
partially  explored,  the  Rosicrusians,  especially  arrogated. 
He  remembered  to  have  heard  in  Germany  of  the  work  of 
John  Bringeret,*  asserting  that  all  the  languages  of  the  earth 
were  known  to  the  genuine  Brotherhood  of  the  Rosy  Cross. 
Did  Zanoni  belong  to  this  mystical  Fraternity,  who,  in  an 
earlier  age,  boasted  of  secrets  of  which  the  Philosphers’s  Stone 
was  but  the  least ; who  considered  themselves  the  heirs  of  all 
that  the  Chaldaeans,  the  Magi,  the  Gymnosophists  and  the 
Platonists  had  taught;  and  who  differed  from  all  the  darker 
Sons  of  Magic  in  the  virtue  of  their  lives,  the  purity  ol 
their  doctrines,  and  their  insisting  as  the  foundation  of  all 
wisdom,  on  the  subjugation  of  the  senses,  and  the  inten- 
sity of  Religious  Faith  ? — a glorious  sect,  if  they  lied 
not  ! And,  in  truth,  if  Zanoni  had  power  beyond  the 
race  of  worldly  sages,  they  seemed  not  unworthily  exer- 
cised. The  little  known  of  his  life  was  in  his  favor. 
Some  acts,  not  of  indiscriminate,  but  judicious  generosity  and 
beneficence,  were  recorded  ; in  repeating  which,  still,  how- 
ever, the  narrators  shook  their  heads,  and  expressed  surprise 
how  a stranger  should  have  possessed  so  minute  a knowledge 
of  the  quiet  and  obscure  distresses  he  had  relieved.  Two  or 
three  sick  persons,  when  abandoned  by  their  physicians,  he 
had  visited  and  conferred  with  alone.  They  had  recovered  : 
they  ascribed  to  him  their  recovery : yet  they  could  not  tell 
by  what  medicines  they  had  been  healed.  They  could  only 
depose  that  he  came,  conversed  with  them,  and  they  were 
cured ; it  usually,  however,  happened,  that  a deep  sleep  had 
preceded  the  recovery. 

Another  circumstance  was  also  beginning  to  be  remarked, 
and  spoke  yet  more  in  his  commendation.  Those  with  whom 
principally  associated — the  gay,  the  dissipated,  "he  thought* 

* Printed  in  1615. 


96 


• ZANOm. 


less,  fhe  sinners  and  publicans  of  the  more  polished  world — * 
all  appeared  rapidly,  yet  insensibly  to  themselves,  to  waken 
to  purer  thoughts  and  more  regulated  lives.  Even  Cetoxa, 
the  prince  of  gallants,  duellists,  and  gamesters,  was  no  longer 
the  same  man  since  the  night  of  the  singular  events  which  he 
had  related  to  Glyndon.  The  first  trace  of  his  reform  was  in 
his  retirement  from  the  gaming-houses  ; the  next  was  his  rec- 
onciliation with  an  hereditary  enemy  of  his  house,  whom  it 
had  been  his  constant  object  for  the  last  six  years  to  entangle 
in  such  a quarrel  as  might  call  forth  his  inimitable  manoeu- 
vre of  the  stoccata.  Nor  when  Cetoxa  and  his  young  com- 
panions were  heard  to  speak  of  Zanoni,  did  it  seem  that  this 
change  had  been  brought  about  by  any  sober  lectures  or  ad- 
monitions. They  all  described  Zanoni  as  a man  keenly  alive 
to  enjoyment — of  manners,  the  reverse  of  formal — not  pre- 
cisely gay,  but  equable,  serene,  and  cheerful ; ever  ready  to 
listen  to  the  talk  of  others,  however  idle,  or  to  charm  all  ears 
with  an  inexhaustible  fund  of  brilliant  anecdote  and  worldly 
experience.  All  manners,  all  nations,  all  grades  of  men 
seemed  familiar  to  him.  He  was  reserved  only  if  allusion 
were  ever  ventured  to  his  birth  or  history.  The  more  general 
opinion  of  his  origin  certainly  seemed  the  more  plausible. 
His  riches,  his  familiarity  with  tire  languages  of  the  East,  his 
residence  in  India,  a certain  gravity  which  never  deserted  his 
most  cheerful  and  familiar  hours,  the  lustrous  darkness  of  his 
eyes  and  hair,  and  even  the  peculiarities  of  his  shape,  in  the 
delicate  smallness  of  the  hands,  and  the  Arab-like  turn  of  the 
stately  head,  appeared  to  fix  him  as  belonging  to  one  at  least 
of  the  Oriental  races.  And  a dabbler  in  the  Eastern  tongues 
even  sought  to  reduce  the  simple  name  of  Zanoni,  which  a 
century  before  had  been  borne  by  an  inoffensive  naturalist  of 
of  Bologna,*  to  the  radicals  of  the  extinct  language.  Zan  was 
unquestionably  the  Chaldaen  appellation  for  the  sun.  Even 
the  Greeks,  who  mutilated  every  Oriental  name,  had  retained 
the  right  one  in  this  case,  as  the  Cretan  inscription  on  the 
tomb  of  Zeus  f significantly  showed.  As  to  the  rest,  the  Zan, 
or  Zaun,  was,' with  the  Sidonians,  no  uncommon  prefix  to  On, 
Adonis  was  but  another  name  for  Zanonas,  whose  worship 
in  Sidon  Hesychius  records.  To  this  profound  and  unan- 
swerable derivation,  Mervale  listened  with  great  attention, 
and  observed  that  he  now  ventured  to  announce  an  erudite 

* The  author  of  two  works  on  botany  and  rare  plants. 

^ Here  lies  great  Jove. 


ZANOJVl. 


97 


discovery  he  himself  had  long  since  made — viz.,  that  the  nu- 
merous family  of  Smiths  in  England  were  undoubtedly  the 
ancient  priests  of  the  Phrygian  Apollo.  “ For,”  said  he, 
“ was  not  Apollo’s  surname,  in  Phrygia,  Smintheus } How 
clear  all  the  ensuing  corruptions  of  the  august  name — Smin- 
theus — Smitheus — Smithd — Smith  ! And  even  now,  I may  re- 
mark that  the  more  ancient  branches  of  that  illustrious  fam- 
ily, unconsciously  anxious  to  approximate  at  least  by  a letter 
nearer  to  the  true  title,  take  a pious  pleasure  in  writing  their 
names  Smiths ! ” 

The  Philologist  was  much?  struck  with  this  discovery,  and 
begged  Mervale’s  permission  to  note  it  down  as  an  illustra- 
tion suitable  to  a work  he  was  about  to  publish  on  the  origin 
of  languages,  to  be  called  “ Babel,”  and  published  in  three 
quartos  by  subscription. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Learn  to  be  poor  in  spirit,  my  son,  if  you  would  penetrate  that  sacred  night  which 
environs  truth.  Learn  of  the  Sages  to  allow  to  the  Devils  no  power  in  nature, 
since  the  fatal  stone  has  shut  ’em  up  in  the  depth  of  the  abyss.  Learn  of  the 
Philosophers  always  to  look  for  natural  causes  in  all  extraordinary  events ; and 
when  such  natural  causes  are  wanting,  recur  to  God. — The  Count  de  Ga- 
BALIS. 

All  these  additions  to  his  knowledge  of  Zanoni,  picked  up 
in  the  various  lounging-places  and  resorts  that  he  frequented, 
were  unsatisfactory  to  Glyndon.  That  night  Viola  did  not 
perform  at  the  theatre ; and  the  next  day,  still  disturbed  by 
bewildered  fancies,  and  averse  to  the  sober  and  sarcastic 
companionship  of  Mervale,  Glyndon  sauntered  musingly  into 
the  public  gardens,  and  paused  beneath  the  very  tree  under 
which  he  had  first  heard  the  voice  that  had  exercised  upon 
his  mind  so  singular  an  influence.  The  gardens  were  desert- 
ed. He  threw  himself  on  one  of  the  seats  placed  beneath 
the  shade;  and  again,  in  the  midst  of  his  reverie,  the  same 
cold  shudder  came  over  him  which  Zanoni  had  so  distinctly 
defined,  and  to  which  he  had  ascribed  so  extraordinary  a 
cause. 

He  roused  himself  with  a sudden  effort,  and  started  to  see, 
seated  next  him,  a figure  hideous  enough  to  have  personated 
one  of  the  malignant  beings  of  whom  Zanoni  had  spoken. 
It  was  a small  man,  dressed  in  a fashion  strikingly  at  vari- 
ance with  the  elaborate  costume  of  the  day  : an  affectation  ol 
7 


98 


ZANOm. 


homeliness  and  poverty  approaching  to  squalor,  in  the  loose 
trousers,  coarse  as  a ship’s  sail — in  the  rough  jacket,  which 
appeared  rent  wilfully  into  holes — and  the  black,  ragged,  tan- 
gled locks  that  streamed  from  their  confinement  under  a wool- 
len cap,  accorded  but  ill  with  other  details  which  spoke  of 
comparative  wealth.  The  shirt,  open  at  the  throat,  was  fas- 
tened by  a brooch  of  gaudy  stones ; and  two  pendant  massive 
gold  chains  announced  the  foppery  of  two  watches. 

The  man’s  figure,  if  not  absolutely  deformed,  was  yet  mar- 
velously ill-favored ; his  shoulders'  high  and  square  ; his  chest 
flattened,  as  if  crushed  in ; his  ^loveless  hands  were  knotted 
at  the  joints,  and  large,  bony  and  muscular,  dangled  from 
lean,  emaciated  wrists,  as  if  not  belonging  to  them.  His 
features  had  the  painful  distortion  sometimes  seen  in  the 
countenance  of  a cripple — large,  exaggerated,  with  the  nose 
nearly  touching  the  chin  ; the  eyes  small,  but  glowing  with  a 
cunning  fire  as  they  dwelt  on  Glyndon  ; and  the  mouth  was 
twisted  into  a grin  that  displayed  rows  of  jagged,  black, 
broken  teeth.  Yet  over  this  frightful  face  there  still  played 
a kind  of  disagreeable  intelligence,  an  expression  at  once 
astute  and  bold  ; and  as  Glyndon,  recovering  from  the  first 
impression,  looked  again  at  his  neighbor,  he  blushed  at  his 
own  dismay,  and  recognized  a French  artist,  with  whom  he 
had  formed  an  acquaintance,  and  who  was  possessed  of  no 
inconsiderable  talents  in  his  calling.  Indeed,  it  was  to  be 
remarked  that  this  creature,  whose  externals  were  so  deserted 
by  the  Graces,  particularly  delighted  in  designs  aspiring  to 
majesty  and  grandeur.  Though  his  coloring  was  hard  and 
shallow,  as  was  that  generally  of  the  French  school  at  the 
time,  his  drawings  were  admirable  for  symmetry,  simple  ele- 
gance, and  classic  vigor  ; at  the  same  time  they  unquestiona- 
bly wanted  ideal  grace.  He  was  fond  of  selecting  subjects 
from  Roman  History,  rather  than  from  the  copious  world  of 
Grecian  beauty,  or  those  still  more  sublime  stories  of  script- 
ural record  from  which  Rafaele  and  Michael  Angelo  borrowed 
their  inspirations.  His  grandeur  was  that,  not  of  gods 
and  saints,  but  mortals.  His  delineation  of  beauty  was  that 
which  the  eye  cannot  blame  and  the  soul  does  not  acknowl- 
edge. In  a word,  as  it  was  said  of  Dionysius,  he  was  an 
Anthropographos,  or  Painter  of  Men.  It  was  also  a notable 
contradiction  in  this  person,  who  was  addicted  to  the  most 
extravagant  excesses  in  every  passion,  whether  of  hate  or  love, 
implacable  in  revenge,  and  insatiable  in  debauch,  that  he 
was  in  the  habit  of  uttering  the  most  beautiful  sentiments  of 


ZANOm. 


99 


exalted  purity  and  genial  philanthropy.  The  world  was  not 
good  enough  for  him  ; he  was,  to  use  the  expressive  German 
phrase,  a world-beiterer ! Nevertheless,  his  sarcastic  lip  often 
seemed  to  mock  the  sentiments  he  uttered,  as  if  it  sought  to 
insinuate  that  he  was  above  even  the  world  he  would 
construct. 

Finally,  this  painter  was  in  close  correspondence  with  the 
Republicans  of  Paris,  and  was  held  to  be  one  of  those 
missionaries  whom,  from  the  earliest  period  of  the  Revolution, 
the  regenerators  of  mankind  were  pleased  to  despatch  to  the 
various  states  yet  shackled,  whether  by  actual  tyranny,  oi 
wholesome  laws.  Certainly  as  the  historian  of  Italy  * has 
observed,  there  was  no  city  in  Italy  where  these  new  doctrines 
would  be  received  with  greater  favor  than  Naples,  partly 
from  the  lively  temper  of  the  people,  principally  because  the 
most  hateful  feudal  privileges,  however  partially  curtailed 
some  years  before  by  the  great  minister,  Tanuccini,  still  pre- 
sented so  many  daily  and  practical  evils  as  to  make  change 
wear  a more  substantial  charm  than  mere  and  meretricious 
bloom  on  the  cheek  of  the  harlot — Novelty.  This  man, 
whom  I will  call  Jean  Nicot,  was,  therefore,  an  oracle  among 
the  younger  and  bolder  spirits  of  Naples ; and  before  Glyn- 
don  had  met  Zanoni,  the  former  had  not  been  among  the 
least  dazzled  by  the  eloquent  aspirations  of  the  hideous  Phi- 
lanthropist. 

“It  is  so  long  since  we  have  met,  cher confrere^^  said  Nicot, 
drawing  his  seat  nearer  to  Glyndon’s,  “ that  you  cannot  be 
surprised  that  I see  you  with  delight,  and  even  take  the  lib- 
erty to  intrude  on  your  meditations.” 

“ They  were  of  no  agreeable  nature,”  said  Glyndon , 
“ and  never  was  intrusion  more  welcome.” 

“You  will  be  charmed  to  hear,”  said  Nicot,  drawing  several 
letters  from  his  bosom,  “ that  the  good  work  proceeds  with 
marvelous  rapidity.  Mirabeau,  indeed,  is  no  more ; but, 
mort  Diable  ! the  French  people  are  now  a Mirabeau  them- 
selves.” With  this  remark.  Monsieur  Nicot  proceeded  to 
read  and  comment  upon  several  animated  and  interesting 
passages  in  his  correspondence,  in  which  the  word  Virtue 
was  introduced  twenty-seven  times,  and  God  not  once.  And 
then,  warmed  by  the  cheering  prospect  thus  opened  to  him, 
he  began  to  indulge  in  those  anticipations  of  the  future,  the 
outline  of  which  we  have  already  seen  in  the  eloquent  extrav- 


• Botta, 


lOO 


ZANOm. 


agance  of  Condorcet.  All  the  Old  Virtues  were  dethroned 
fora  new  Pantheon:  Patriotism  was  a narrow  sentiment; 

Philanthropy  was  to  be  its  successor.  No  love  that  did  not 
embrace  all  mankind,  as  warm  for  Indus  and  the  Pole  as  for 
the  hearth  of  home,  was  worthy  the  breast  of  a generous 
man.  Opinion  was  to  be  free  as  air ; and  in  order  to  make  it 
so,  it  was  necessary  to  exterminate  all  those  whose  opinions 
were  not  the  same  as  Mons.  Jean  Nicot’s.  Much  of  this 
amused,  much  revolted  Glyndon ; but  when  the  Painter 
turned  to  dwell  upon  a science  that  all  should  comprehend — and 
the  results  of  which  all  should  enjoy, — a science  that,  spring- 
ing from  the  soil  of  equal  institutions  and  equal  mental  culti- 
vation, should  give  to  all  the  races  of  men  wealth  without 
labor,  and  a life  longer  than  the  Patriarchs’,  without  care, — 
then  Glyndon  listened  with  interest  and  admiration,  not 
unmixed  with  awe.  Observe,”  said  Nicot,  “ how  much  that 
we  now  cherish  as  a virtue  will  then  be  rejected  as  meanness. 
Our  oppressors,  for  instance,  preach  to  us  of  the  excellence 
of  gratitude.  Gratitude,  the  confession  of  inferiority  I What 
so  hateful  to  a noble  spirit  as  the  humiliating  sense  of  obliga- 
tion ? But  where  there  is  equality  there  can  be  no  means  for 
power  thus  to  enslave  merit.  The  benefactor  and  the  client 
will  alike  cease,  and ” 

“ And  in  the  meantime,”  said  a low  voice  at  hand,  “ in  the 
mean  time,  Jean  Nicot  ? ” 

The  two  artists  started,  and  Glyndon  recognized  Zanoni. 

He  gazed  with  a brow  of  unusual  sternness  on  Nicot,  who, 
lumped  together  as  he  sat,  looked  up  at  him  askew,  and  with 
an  expression  of  fear  and  dismay  upon  his  distorted  counte- 
nance. 

“Ho,  ho!  Messire  Jean  Nicot ; thouwhofearest  neither  Goa 
nor  Devil,  why  fearest  thou  the  eye  of  a man?” 

“It  is  not  the  first  time  I have  been  a witness  to  your 
opinions  on  the  infirmity  of  gratitude,”  said  Zanoni. 

Nicot  suppressed  an  exclamation,  and  after  gloomily  survey- 
ing Zanoni  with  an  eye  villainous  and  sinister,  but  full  of  hate 
impotent  and  unutterable,  said,  “ I know  you  not — what  would 
you  of  me  ? ” 

“ Your  absence.  Leave  us  ! ” 

Nicot  sprang  forward  a step,  with  hands  clenched,  and 
showing  his  teeth  from  ear  to  ear,  like  a wild  beast  incensed. 
Zanoni  stood  motionless,  and  smiled  at  him  in  scorn.  Nicot 
halted  abruptly,  as  if  fixed  and  fascinated  by  the  look, 


1 


N 


ZANONL  loi 

shivered  from  head  to  foot,  and  sullenly,  and  with  a visible 
effort,  as  if  impelled  by  a power  not  his  own,  turned  away. 

Glyndon’s  eyes  followed  him  in  surprise. 

“ And  what  know  you  of  this  man  ” said  Zanoni. 

“ I know  him  as  one  like  myself — a follower  of  art.” 

‘‘Of  ART  ! Do  not  so  profane  that  glorious  word.  What 
nature  is  to  God,  Art  should  be  to  Man — a sublime,  beneficent, 
genial,  and  warm  creation.  That  wretch  may  be  a painter^ 
not  an  artist T 

“ And  pardon  me  if  I ask  what  you  know  of  one  you  thus 
disparage  ? ” 

“ I know  thus  much,  that  you  are  beneath  my  care  if  it  b^ 
necessary  to  warn  you  against  him  ; his  own  lips  show  the 
hideousness  of  his  heart.  Why  should  I tell  you  of  the 
crimes  he  has  committed  ! He  speaks  crime  ! ” 

“ You  do  not  seem,  Signor  Zanoni,  to  be  one  of  the 
admirers  of  the  dawning  Revolution.  Perhaps  you  are  prej- 
udiced against  the  man  because  you  dislike  the  opinions  ? ” 

“ What  opinions  ? ” 

Glyndon  paused,  somewhat  puzzled  to  define  ; but  at  length 
he  said,  “ Nay,  I must  wrong  you ; for  you,  of  all  men,  I sup- 
pose, cannot  discredit  the  doctrine  that  preaches  the  infinite 
improvement  of  the  human  species.” 

“You  are  right ; the  few  in  every  age  improve  the  many; 
the  many  now  may  be  as  wise  as  the  few  were  ; but  improve- 
ment is  at  a stand-still,  if  you  tell  me  that  the  many  now  are 
as  wise  as  the  few  areP 

“ I comprehend  you  ; you  will  not  allow  the  law  of  univer- 
sal equality ! ” 

“ Law ! If  the  whole  world  conspired  to  enforce  the  false- 
hood, they  could  not  make  it  law.  Level  all  conditions  to- 
day, and  you  only  smooth  away  all  obstacles  to  tyranny  to-' 
morrow.  A nation  that  aspires  to  equality  is  unfit  for  free^^ 
dom.  Throughout  all  creation,  from  the  archangel  to  the 
worm, — from  Olympus  to  the  pebble, — from  the  radiant  and 
completed  planet  to  the  nebula  that  hardens  through  ages  of 
mist  and  slime  into  the  habitable  world,  the  first  law  of  nature 
is  inequality.” 

“ Harsh  doctrine,  if  applied  to  states.  Are  -the  cruel  dis- 
parities of  life  never  to  be  removed  ? ” 

“ Disparities  of  the  physical  life  ? Oh,  let  us  hope  so. 
But  disparities  of  the  intellectual  and  the  moral.,  never  I 
Universal  equality  of  intelligence,  of  mind,  of  genius,  of 
vktu©  ! — teacher  left  to  the  world  I no  men  witef,-  better 


102 


ZANONL 


than  others — ^were  it  not  an  impossible  condition,  what  a hop^ 
less  prospect  for  humanity  / No  ; while  the  world  lasts,  the  sun 
will  gild  the  mountain-top  before  it  shines  upon  the  plain. 
Diffuse  all  the  knowledge  the  earth  contains  equally  over  all 
mankind  to-day,  and  some  men  will  be  wiser  than  the  rest  to- 
morrow. And  this  is  not  a harsh,  but  a loving  law, — ^the  real 
law  of  Improvement ; the  wiser  the  few  in  one  generation, 
the  wiser  will  be  the  multitude  the  next ! ” 

' As  Zanoni  thus  spoke,  they  moved  on  through  the  smiling 
gardens,  the  beautiful  bay  lay  sparkling  in  the  noontide. 
A gentle  breeze  just  cooled  the  sunbeam,  and  stirred  the 
ocean  ; and  in  the  inexpressible  clearness  of  the  atmosphere, 
there  was  something  that  rejoiced  the  senses.  The  very  soul 
seemed  to  grow  lighter  and  purer  in  that  lucid  air. 

“And these  men,  to  commence  their  era  of  improvement 
and  equality,  are  jealous  even  of  the  Creator.  They  would 
deny  an  Intelligence— a God  ! ” said  Zanoni,  as  if  involunta- 
rily. “ Are  you  an  Artist,  and,  looking  on  the  world,  can  you 
listen  to  such  a dogma  ? Between  God  and  Genius  there  is  a 
necessary  link — there  is  almost  a correspondent  language. 
Well  said  the  Pythagorean,  * — ‘ A good  intellect  is  the  chorus 
of  divinity.’  ” 

Struck  and  touched  with  th^se  sentiments,  which  he  little 
expected  to  fall  from  one  to  whom  he  ascribed  those  powers 
which  the  superstitions  of  childhood  ascribe  to  the  darker 
agencies,  Glyndon  said  : “ And  yet  you  have  confessed  that 
your  life,  separated  from  that  of  others,  is  one  that  man 
should  dread  to  share.  Is  there,  then,  a connection  between 
magic  and  religion  ? ” 

“ Magic ! And  what  is  magic  ? When  the  traveler  beholds 
in  Persia  the  ruins  of  palaces  and  temples,  the  ignorant 
inhabitants  inform  him  they  were  the  work  of  magicians  I 
What  is  beyond  their  own  power,  the  vulgar  cannot  com* 
prehend  to  be  lawfully  in  the  power  of  others.  But  if  by 
magic  you  mean  a perpetual  research  amongst  allthatis  latent 
or  obscure  in  nature,  I answer,  I profess  that  magic,  and  he 
who  does  so  comes  but  nearer  to  the  fountain  of  all  belief. 
Knowest  thou  not  that  magic  was  taught  in  schools  of  old } 
But  how,  and  by  whom  ? as  the  last  and  most  solemn  lesson, 
by  the  Priests  who  ministered  to  the  Temple. t And  you,  who 
would  be  a painter,  is  not  there  a magic  also  in  that  art  you 
would  advance  ? LIust  you  not,  after  long  study  of  the  Beau* 
tiful  that  has  been,  seize  upon  new  and  airy  combinations  of 

* Sea&tusj.  tJic  Pythagoreajs;  f Psellus  de  Daeiaoii.  (MS.) 


ZANONL 


lOJ 

a beauty  that  is  to  be  ? See  you  not  that  The  Grander  Art, 
whether  of  poet  or  of  painter,  ever  seeking  for  the  truEj 
abhors  the  real  ; that  you  must  seize  Nature  as  her  master, 
not  lackey  her  as  her  slave  ? You  demand  mastery  over  the 
past,  a conception  of  the  future.  Has  not  the  Art  that  is 
truly  noble,  for  its  domain  the  Future  and  the  Past?  You 
would  conjure  the  invisible  beings  to  your  charm  : and  what 
is  painting  but  the  fixing  into  substance  the  Invisible  ? Are 
you  discontented  with  this  world?  This  world  was  never 
meant  for  genius ! To  exist,  it  must  create  another.  What 
magician  can  do  more  ; nay,  what  science  can  do  as  much  ? 
There  are  two  avenues  from  the  little  passions  and  the  drear 
calamities  of  earth ; both  lead  to  heaven,  and  away  from  hell 
—Art  and  Science.  But  Art  is  more  god-like  than  science ; 
science  discovers,  art  creates.  Y ou  have  faculties  that  may  com- 
mand art ; be  contented  with  your  lot.  The  astronomer  who 
catalogues  the  stars  cannot  add  one  atom  to  the  universe ; 
the  poet  can  call  a universe  from  the  atom  ; the  chemist  may 
heal  with  his  drugs  the  infirmities  of  the  human  form  ; the 
painter,  or  the  sculptor,  fixes  into  everlasting  youth  forms 
divine,  which  no  disease  can  ravage,  and  no  years  impair. 
Renounce  those  wandering  fancies  that  lead  you  now  to  my- 
self, and  now  to  yon  orator  of  the  human  race  ; to  us  two, 
who  are  the  antipodes  of  each  other  ! Your  pencil  is  your 
wand  ; your  canvas  may  raise  Utopias  fairer  than  Condorcet 
dreams  of.  I press  not  yet  for  your  decision  ; but  what  man 
of  genius  ever  asked  more  to  cheer  his  path  to  the  grave,  than 
love  and  glory  ? ” 

“ But,”  said  Glyndon,  fixing  his  eyes  earnestly  on  Zanoni, 
“ if  there  be  a power  to  baffle  the  grave  itself ” 

Zanoni’s  brow  darkened.  “ And  were  this  so,”  he  said, 
after  a pause,  “ would  it  be  so  sweet  a lot  to  outlive  all  you 
loved,  and  recoil  from  every  human  tie  ? Perhaps  the  fairest 
immortality  on  earth  is  that  of  a noble  name.” 

“ You  do  not  answer  me — you  equivocate.  I have  read  of 
the  long  lives  far  beyond  the  date  common  experience 
assigns  to  man,”  persisted  Glyndon,  “ which  some  of  the  alchy- 
mists  enjoyed.  Is  the  golden  elixir  but  a fable  ? ” 

“ If  not,  and  these  men  discovered  it,  they  died,  because 
they  refused  to  live  ! There  may  be  a mournful  warning  in 
your  conjecture.  Turn  once  more  to  the  easel  and  the  can* 
vas  ! ” 

So  saying,  Zanoni  waved  his  hand,  and  with  downcast  eyes 
and  slow  step,  bent  Ms  way  back  into  the  city^ 


104 


ZANONL 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

The  Goddess  Wisdom. 

To  some  she  is  the  goddess  great ; 

To  some  the  milch  cow  of  the  field  f 
Their  care  is  but  to  calculate 

What  butter  she  will  yield. 

From  Schiller 

This  last  conversation  with  Zanoni  left  upon  the  mind  of 
Glyndon  a tranquillizing  and  salutary  effect.  From  the  con- 
fused mists  of  his  fancy  glittered  forth  again  those  happy, 
golden  schemes  which  part  from  the  young  ambition  of  art,  to 
play  in  the  air,  to  illumine  the  space,  like  rays  that  kindle 
from  the  sun.  And  with  these  projects  mingled  also  the  vis- 
ion of  a love  purer  and  serener  than  his  life  yet  had  known. 
His  mind  went  back  into  that  fair  childhood  of  genius,  when 
the  forbidden  fruit  is  not  yet  tasted,  and  we  know  of  no  land 
beyond  the  Eden  which  is  gladdened  by  an  Eve.  Insensibly 
before  him  rose  the  scenes  of  a home,  with  his  art  sufficing 
for  all  excitement,  and  Viola’s  love  circling  occupation  with 
happiness  and  content ; and  in  the  midst  of  these  phantasies 
of  a future  that  might  be  at  his  command,  he  was  recalled  to 
the  present  by  the  clear  strong  voice  of  Mervale,  the  man  of 
common  sense. 

Whoever  has  studied  the  lives  of  persons  in  whom  the  im- 
agination is  stronger  than  the  will,  who  suspect  their  own 
knowledge  of  actual  life,  and  are  aware  of  their  facility  to  im- 
pressions,— will  have  observed  the  influence  which  a homely, 
vigorous,  worldly  understanding  obtains  over  such  natures. 
It  was  thus  with  Glyndon.  His  friend  had  often  extricated 
him  from  danger,  and  saved  him  from  the  consequences  of 
imprudence  : and  there  was  something  in  Mervale’s  voice 
alone  that  damped  his  enthusiasm,  and  often  made  him  yet 
more  ashamed  of  noble  impulses  than  weak  conduct.  For 
Mervale,  though  a downright  honest  man,  could  not  sympathize 
with  the  extravagance  of  generosity  any  more  than  with  that 
of  presumption  and  credulity.  He  walked  the  straight  line  of 
life,  and  felt  an  equal  contempt  for  the  man  who  wandered  up 
the  hill-sides,  no  matter  whether  to  chase  a butterfly,  to 
catch  a prospect  of  the  ocean. 

“I  will  tell  you  your  thoughts,  Clarence,”  said 
laughing,  “ though  I am  no  Zanoni.  I know  them  by  the 
moisture  of  your  eyes,  and  the  half-smile  on  your  lips-  You 
are  musing  upon  that  fair  perdition — the  little  iinger  of  San 
Carlo/^ 


ZANOm, 


105 


The  singer  of  San  Carlo  ! Glyndon  colored  as  he 
answered, — 

“ Would  you  speak  thus  of  her  if  she  were  my  wife  ? ” 

“ No  ! for  then  any  contempt  I might  venture  to  feel  would 
be  for  yourself.  One  may  dislike  the  duper,  but  it  is  the  dupe 
that  one  despises.” 

“ Are  you  sure  that  I should  be  the  dupe  in  such  a union  ? 
Where  can  I find  one  so  lovely  and  so  innocent — where  one 
whose  virtue  has  been  tried  by  such  temptation  ? Does  even 
a single  breath  of  slander  sully  the  name  of  Viola  Pisani  ? ” 

“ I know  not  all  the  gossip  of  Naples,  and  therefore  cannot 
answer  ; but  I know  this,  that  in  England  no  one  would  believe 
that  a young  Englishman,  of  good  fortune,  and  respectable 
birth,  who  marries'  a singer  from  the  theatre  of  Naples,  has 
not  been  lamentably  taken  in.  I would  save  you  from  a fall 
of  position  so  irretrievable.  Think  how  many  mortifications 
you  will  be  subjected  to  ; how  many  young  men  will  visit  at 
your  house  ; and  how  many  young  wives  will  as  carefully  avoid 
it.” 

“ I can  choose  my  own  career,  to  which  commonplace 
society  is  not  essential.  I can  owe  the  respect  of  the  world 
to  my  art,  and  not  to  the  accidents  of  birth  and  fortune.” 

“ That  is,  you  still  persist  in  your  second  folly — the  absurd 
ambition  of  daubing  canvas.  Heaven  forbid  I should  say 
anything  against  the  laudable  industry  of  one  who  follows 
such  a profession  for  the  sake  of  subsistence  : but  with  means 
and  connections  that  will  raise  you  in  life,  why  voluntarily 
sink  into  a mere  artist  ? As  an  accomplishment  in  leisure 
moments,  it  is  all  very  well  in  its  way ; but  as  the  occupation 
of  existence,  it  is  a frenzy.” 

“ Artists  have  been  the  friends  of  princes.” 

“ Very  rarely  so,  I fancy,  in  sober  England.  There,  in  the 
great  centre  of  political  aristocracy,  what  men  respect  is  the 
practical,  not  the  ideal.  Just  suffer  me  to  draw  two  pictures 
of  my  own.  Clarence  Glyndon  returns  to  England ; he 
marries  a lady  of  fortune  equal  to  his  own,  of  friends  and 
parentage  that  advance  rational  ambition.  Clarence  Glyndon, 
thus  a wealthy  and  respectable  man,  of  good  talents,  of  bust- 
ling energies  then  concentrated,  enters  into  practical  life.  He 
has  a house  at  which  he  can  receive  those  whose  acquaintance 
is  both  advantage  and  honor ; he  has  leisure  which  he  can 
devote  to  useful  studies  ; his  reputation,  built  on  a solid  base, 
grows  in  men’s  mouths.  He  attaches  himself  to  a party  ; he 
enters  political  life  ; his  new  connections  serve  to  promote 


ZANONL 


io6 


A 


his  objects.  At  the  age  of  five-and-forty,  what  in  ■ all  prob* 
bility,  may  Clarence  Glyndon  be  ? Since  you  are  ambitious, 
I leave  that  question  for  you  to  decide ! Now  turn  to  the 
other  picture,  Clarence  Glyndon  returns  to  England  with  a 
wife  who  can  bring  him  no  money,  unless  he  lets  her  out  on 
the  stage ; so  handsome,  that  every  one  asks  who  she  is,  and 
every  one  hears — the  celebrated  singer,  Pisani.  Clarence 
Glyndon  shuts  himself  up  to  grind  colors  and  paint  pictures 
in  the  grand  historical  school,  which  nobody  buys.  There  is 
even  a prejudice  against  him,  as  not  having  studied  in  the 
Academy — as  being  an  amateur.  Who  is  Mr.  Clarence 
Glyndon  ? Oh  ! the  celebrated  Pisani’s  husband  ! What  else  ? 
Oh  ! he  exhibits  those  large  pictures.  Poor  man-!  they  have 
merit  in  their  way ; but  Teniers  and  Watteau  are  more  con- 
venient, and  almost  as  cheap.  Clarence  Glyndon,  with  an 
easy  fortune  while  single,  has  a large  family,  which  his  fortune, 
unaided  by  marriage,  can  just  rear  up  to  callings  more  plebe- 
ian than  his  own.  He  retires  into  the  country,  to  save  and  to 
paint ; he  grows  slovenly  and  discontented  ; ‘ the  world  does 
net  appreciate  him,’  he  says,  and  he  runs  away  from  the  world. 
At  the  age  of  forty-five,  what  will  be  Clarence  Glyndon  ? 
Your  ambition  shall  decide  that  question  also  ! ” 

“ If  all  men  were  as  worldly  as  you,”  said  Glyndon,  rising, 
“ there  would  never  have  been  an  artist  or  a poet  I ” 

“ Perhaps  we  should  do  just  as  well  without  them/* 
answered  Mervale.  “ Is  it  not  time  to  think  of  dinner  ? The 
mullets  here  are  remarkably  fine  1 ” 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Wollt  ihr  hoch  auf  ihren  Flugeln  schweben, 

Werft  oie  Angst  des  Irdischcn  von  euch  1 
Fliehet  jus  .iem  engen  dumpfen  Leben 
In  dcs  Id -ales  Reich ! 

Das  Ideal  und  das  leben, 

Wouldst  thou  soar  heaven-ward  on  its  joyous  wing  ? 

Cast  off  the  earthly  burden  of  the  Real ; 

High  from  this  cramp’d  and  dungeon’d  being,  spring 
In^o  the  realm  of  '‘he  Ideal. 

As  some  injudicious  master  lowers  and  vitiates  the  taste  of 
the  student  by  fixing  his  attention  to  what  he  falsely  calls  the 
Natural,  but  which,  in  reality,  is  the  Commonplace,  and 


zAmm. 


107 


understands  not  that  beauty  in  art  is  created  by  what  Rafaele 
so  well  describes — viz.,  the  idea  of  beauty  in  the  painter's  OM 
mind ; and  that  in  every  art  whether  its  plastic  expression  6g 
found  in  words  or  marble,  colors  or  sounds,  the  servile  imita^ 
tion  of  nature  is  the  work  of  journeymen  and  tyros ; — so  in 
conduct  the  man  of  the  world  vitiates  and  lowers  the  bold 
enthusiasm  of  loftier  natures  by  the  perpetual  reduction  of 
whatever  is  generous  and  trustful  to  all  that  is  trite  and  coarse. 
A great  German  poet  has  well  defined  the  distinction  between 
discretion  and  the  larger  wisdom.  In  the  last  there  is  a 
certain  rashness  which  the  first  disdains — 

“ The  purblind  see  but  the  receding  shore, 

Not  that  to  which  the  bold  wave  wafts  them  o’er.’^ 

Yet  in  this  logic  of  the  prudent  and  the  worldly  there  is 
often  a reasoning  unanswerable  of  its  kind. 

You  must  have  a feeling — a faith  in  whatever  is  self- 
sacrificing  and  divine — whether  in  religion  or  in  art,  in  glory 
or  in  love — or  Common-sense  will  reason  you  out  of  the 
sacrifice,  and  a syllogism  will  debase  The  Divine  to  an  article 
in  the  market. 

Every  true  critic  in  art,  from  Aristotle  and  Pliny — from 
Winkelman  and  Vasari,  to  Reynolds  and  Fuseli,  has  sought 
to  instruct  the  painter  that  Nature  is  not  to  be  copied,  but 
exalted ; that  the  loftiest  order  of  art,  selecting  only  the 
loftiest  combinations,  is  the  perpetual  struggle  of  Humanity 
to  approach  the  Gods.  The  great  painter,  as  the  author, 
embodies  what  is  possible  to  ma7t^  it  is  true,  but  what  is  not 
€07nmon  to  mankind.  There  is, truth  in  Hamlet ; in  Macbeth,  and 
his  witches  ; in  Desdemona  r in  Othello  ; in  Prospero,  and 
in  Caliban ; there  is  truth  in  the  Cartoons  of  Rafaele ; 
there  is  truth  in  the  Apollo,  the  Antinoiis,  and  the 
Laocoon.  But  you  do  not  meet  the  originals  of  the 
words,  the  cartoons,  or  the  marble,  in  Oxford  Street 
or  St  James.  All  these,  to  return  to  Rafaele,  are  the 
creatures  of  the  idea  in  the  artist’s  mind.  This  idea 
is  not  inborn  ; it  has  -come  from  an  intense  study.  But  that 
study  has  been  of  the  ideal,  that  can  be  raised  from  the 
positive  and  the  actual  into  grandeur  and  beauty.  The  com- 
monest model  becomes  full  of  exquisite  suggestions  to  him 
who  has  formed  this  idea  ; a Venus  of  flesh  and  blood  would 
be  vulgarized  by  the  imitation  of  him  who  has  not. 

Whan  asked  where  he  got  his  models,  Guido  summoned  a 


io8 


ZANOm. 


common  porter  from  his  calling,  and  drew  from-  a mean 
original  a head  of  surpassing  beauty.  It  resembled  the  porter, 
but  idealized  the  porter  to  the  hero.  It  was  true,  but  it  was 
not  real.  There  are  critics  who  will  tell  you  that  the  Boor  of 
Teniers  is  more  true  to  nature  than  the  Porter  of  Guido ! 
The  commonplace  public  scarcely  understand  the  idealizing 
principle,  even  in  art ; for  high  art  is  an  acquired  taste. 

But  to  come  to  my  comparison.  Still  less  is  the  kindred 
principle  comprehended  in  conduct’.  And  the  advice  of 
worldly  Prudence  would  as  often  deter  from  the  risks  of 
Virtue  as  from  the  punishments  of  Vice ; yet  in  conduct,  as 
in  art,  there  is  an  idea  of  the  great  and  beautiful,  by  which 
men  should  exalt  the  hackneyed  and  the  trite  of  life.  Now, 
Glyndon  felt  the  sober  prudence  of  Mervale’s  reasonings  ; he 
recoiled  from  the  probable  picture  placed  before  him,  in  his 
devotion  to  the  one  master-talent  he  possessed,  and  the  one 
master-passion  that,  rightly  directed,  might  purify  his  whole 
being  as  a strong  wind  purifies  the  air. 

But  though  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  decide  in  the 
teeth  of  so  rational  a judgment,  neither  could  *he  resolve  at 
once  to  abandon  the  pursuit  of  Viola.  Fearful  of  being 
influenced  by  Zanoni’s  counsels  and  his  own  heart,  he  had 
for  the  last  two  days  shunned  an  interview  with  the  young 
actress.  But  after  a night  following  his  last  conversation 
with  Zanoni  and  that  we  have  just  recorded  with  Mer- 
vale — a night  colored  by  dreams  so  distinct  as  to  seem 
prophetic — dreams  that  appeared  so  to  shape  his  future 
according  to  the  hints  of  Zanoni,  that  he  could  have 
fancied  Zanoni  himself  had  sent  them  from  the  house 
of  sleep  to  haunt  his  pillow,  he  resolved  once  more  to 
seek  Viola;  and  though  without  a definite  or  distinct 
object,  he  yielded  himself  up  to  the  impulse  of  his  heart. 


CHAPTER  X. 

O sollecito  dubbio  e fredda  tema 
Che  pensando  I’accresci.* 

Tasso,  Canzone  vi. 

She  was  seated  outside  her  door — the  young  actress  ! ' The 
sea  before  her  in  that  heavenly  bay  seemed  literally  to  sleep 
in  the  arms  of  the  shore ; while,  to  the  right,  not  far  off,  rose 

* O anxious  deubt  and  chilling  fear,  that  grows  by  thinking. 


ZAMAr/. 


I09 

the  dark  and  tangled  crags  to  which  the  traveler  of  to-day  is 
duly  brought  to  gaze  on  the  tomb  of  Virgil,  or  compare  with 
the  cavern  of  Posilipo  the  archway  of  Highgate  Hill.  There 
were  a few  fishermen  loitering  by  the  cliffs,  on  which  their 
nets  were  hung  to  dry ; and  at  a distance,  the  sound  of  some 
rustic  pipe  (more  common  at  that  day  than  at  this)  mingled 
now  and  then  with  the  bells  of  the  lazy  mules,  broke  the 
voluptuous  silence — the  silence  of  declining  noon  on  "me 
shores  of  Naples  ; — never,  till  you  have  enjoyed  it,  never 
until  you  have  felt  its  enervating,  but  delicious  charm,  believe 
that  you  can  comprehend  all  the  meaning  of  the  Dolce  far 
niente  /t  and  when  that  luxury  has  been  known,  when  you  have 
breathed  that  atmosphere  of  faery  land,  then  you  will  no 
longer  wonder  why  the  heart  ripens  into  fruit  so  sudden  and 
so  rich  beneath  the  rosy  skies  and  the  glorious  sunshine  of 
the  south. 

The  eyes  of  the  actress  were  fixed  on  the  broad  blue  deep 
beyond.  In  the  unwonted  negligence  of  her  dress  might  be 
traced  the  abstraction  of  her  mind.  Her  beautiful  hair  was 
gathered  up  loosely,  and  partially  bandaged  by  a kerchief, 
whose  purple  color  served  to  deepen  the  golden  hue  of  her 
tresses.  A stray  curl  escaped,  and  fell  down  the  graceful 
neck.  A loose  morning  robe,  girded  by  a sash,  left  the  breeze, 
that  came  ever  and  anon  from  the  sea,  to  die  upon  the  bust 
half  disclosed ; and  the  tiny  slipper,  that  Cinderella  might 
have  worn,  seemed  a world  too  wide  for  the  tiny  foot 
which  it  scarcely  covered.  It  might  be  the  heat  of  the  day 
that  deepened  the  soft  bloom  of  the  cheeks,  and  gave  an  un- 
wonted languor  to  the  large  dark  eyes.  In  all  the  pomp  of 
her  stage  attire — in  all  the  flush  of  excitement  before  the  in- 
toxicating lamps — never  had  Viola  looked  so  lovely. 

By  the  side  of  the  actress,  and  filling  up  the  threshold, 
stood  Gionetta,  with  her  arms  thrust  to  the  elbow  in  two  huge 
pockets  on  either  side  of  her  gown. 

“ But  I assure  you,”  said  the  nurse,  in  that  sharp,  quick, 
ear-splitting  tone  in  which  the  old  women  of  the  south  are 
more  than  a match  for  those  of  the  north,  “ but  I assure  you, 
my  darling,  that  there  is  not  a finer  cavalier  in  all  Naples,  nor 
a more  beautiful,  than  this  Inglese ; and  I am  told  that  all 
these  Inglesi  are  much  richer  than  they  seem.  Though  they 
have  no  trees  in  their  country,  poor  people ! and  instead  of 
twenty-four  they  have  only  twelve  hours  to  the  day,  yet  I hear 
that  they  shoe  their  horses  with  scudi  ; and  since  they  cannot 

I The  pleasure  of  doing  nothing. 


no 


ZANOm. 


(the  poor  heretics  !)  turn  grapes  into  wine^  for  they  have  no 
grapes,  they  turn  gold  into  physic,  and  take  a glass  or  two  of 
pistoles  whenever  they  are  troubled  with  the  colic.  But  you 
don’t  hear  me,  little  pupil  of  my  eyes,  you  don’t  hear  me  ! ’’ 
“And  these  things  are  whispered  of  Zanoni  ! ” said  Viola, 
half  to  herself,  and  unheeding  Gionetta’s  eulogies  on  Glyndon 
and  the  English. 

“ Blessed  Maria  ! do  not  talk  of  this  terrible  Zanoni.  Yov 
may  be  sure  that  his  beautiful  face,  like  his  yet  more  beauti- 
ful pistoles,  is  only  witchcraft.  I look  at  the  money  he  gave 
me  the  other  night,  every  quarter  of  an  hour,  to  see  whether 
it  has  not  turned  into  pebbles.” 

“ Do  you  then  really  believe,”  said  Viola,  with  timid  earn 
estness,  “ that  sorcery  still  exists  ? ” 

“ Believe  ! — Do  I believe  in  the  blessed  San  Gennaro  ? 
How  do  you  think  he  cured  old  Filippo  the  fisherman,  when 
the  doctor  gave  him  up  ? how  do  you  think  he  has  managed 
himself  to  live  at  least  three  hundred  years  ? How  do  you 
think  he  fascinates  every  one  to  his  bidding  with  a look,  as 
the  vampires  do  ? ” 

“ Ah,  is  this  only  witchcraft  ? It  is  like  it — it  must  be ! ” 
murmured  Viola,  turning  very  pale.  Gionetta  herself  was 
scarcely  more  superstitious  than  the  daughter  of  the  musician. 
And  her  very  innocence,  chilled  at  the  strangeness  of  virgin 
passion,  might  well  ascribe  to  magic  what  hearts  more  experi- 
enced would  have  resolved  to  love. 

“ And  then,  why  has  this  Prince  di been  so  terrified  by 

him  ? Why  has  he  ceased  to  persecute  us  ? Why  has  he  been 
so  quiet  and  still?  Is  there  no  sorcery  in  all  that?  ” 

“ Think  you,  then,”  said  Viola,  with  sweet  inconsistency. 
“ that  I owe  that  happiness  and  safety  to  his  protection  ? Oh, 
let  me  so  believe  ! Be  silent,  Gionetta  ! Why  have  I only  thee 
and  my  own  terrors  to  consult  ? O beautiful  sun ! ” and  the 
girl  pressed  her  hand  to  her  heart  with  wild  energy  ; “ thou 
lightest  every  spot  but  this.  Go,  Gionetta  ! leave  me  alone 
— leave  me  ! ” 

“ And  indeed  it  is  time  I should  leave  you  ; for  the  polenta 
will  be  spoiled,  and  you  have  eat  nothing  all  day.  If  you  don’t 
eat,  you  will  lose  your  beauty,  my  darling,  and  then  nobody 
will  care  for  you.  Nobody  cares  for  us  when  we  grow  ugly  ; 
I know  that ; and  then  you  must,  like  old  Gionetta,  get  some 
Viola  of  your  own  to  spoil.  I’ll  go  and  see  to  the  polenta^ 
“ Since  I have  known  this  man,”  said  the  girl,  half  aloud, 
“ since  his  dark  eyes  have  haunted  me,  I am  no  longer  the 


ZANONI. 


Ill 

same.  I long  to  escape  from  myself — to  glide  with  the  sun« 
beam  over  the  hill-tops — to  become  something  that  is  not  of 
earth.  Phantoms  flit  before  me  at  night;  and  a fluttering, 
like  the  wing  of  a bird,  within  my  heart,  seems  as  if  the  spirit 
were  terrified,  and  would  break  its  cage.” 

While  murmuring  these  incoherent  rhapsodies,  a step  that 
she  did  not  hear  approached  the  actress,  and  a light  hand 
touched  her  arm. 

“ Viola  ! — bellissim  / — Viola  ! ” 

She  turned,  and  saw  Glyndon.  The  sight  of  his  fair  young 
face  calmed  her  at  once.  His  presence  gave  her  pleasure. 

“ Viola,”  said  the  Englishman,  taking  her  hand,  and  draw- 
ing her  again  to  the  bench  from  which  she  had  risen,  as  he 
seated  himself  beside  her,  “ you  shall  hear  me  speak ! You 
must  know  already  that  I love  thee ! It  has  not  been  pity  or 
admiration  alone  that  has  led  me  ever  and  ever  to  thy  dear 
side  ; reasons  there  may  have  been  why  I have  not  spoken, 
save  by  my  eyes,  before  ; but  this  day — I know  not  how  it  is 
— I feel  a more  sustained  and  settled  courage  to  address  thee, 
and  learn  the  happiest  or  the  worst.  I have  rivals,  I know — 
rivals  who  are  more  powerful  than  the  poor  artist ; are  they 
also  more  favored  ? ” 

Viola  blushed  faintly,  but  her  countenance  was  grave  and 
distressed.  Looking  down,  and  marking  some  hieroglyphical 
figures  in  the  dust  with  the  point  of  her  slipper,  she  said,  with 
some  hesitation,  and  a vain  attempt  to  be  gay,  “ Signor, 
whoever  wastes  his  thoughts  on  an  actress  must  submit 
to  have  rivals.  It  is  our  unhappy  destiny  not  to  be  sacred 
even  to  ourselves.” 

“But  you  do  not  love  this  destiny,  glittering  though  it 
seem ; your  heart  is  not  in  the  vocation  which  your  gifts 
adorn.” 

“ Ah,  no ! ” said  the  actress,  her  eyes  filling  with  tears. 
“ Once  I loved  to  be  the  priestess  of  song  and  music ; now  I 
feel  only  that  it  is  a miserable  lot  to  be  slave  to  a multi- 
tude.” 

“ Fly,  then,  with  me,”  said  the  artist,  passionately ; “ quit 
forever  the  calling  that  divides  that  heart  I would  have  all  my 
own.  Share  my  fate  now  and  for  ever — my  pride,  my  delight, 
my  ideal ! Thou  shalt  inspire  my  canvas  and  my  song ; thy 
beauty  shall  be  made  at  once  holy  and  renowned.  In  the 
galleries  of  princes,  crowds  shall  gather  round  the  effigy  of 
a Venus  or  a Saint,  and  a whisper  shall  break  forth,  * It  is 


112 


ZANom, 


Viola  Pisani ! * Ah  ! Viola,  I adore  thee ; tell  me  that  I di 
not  worship  in  vain.” 

“ Thou  art  good  and  fair,”  said  Viola,  gazing  on  her  lover, 
as  he  pressed  nearer  to  her,  and  clasped  her  hand  in  his. 
“ But  what  should  I give  thee  in  return  ? ” 

“ Love — love — only  love  ! ” 

“ A sister’s  love  ? ” 

“ Ah  ! speak  not  with  such  cruel  coldness  ! ” 

“ It  is  all  I have  for  thee.  Listen  to  me,  signor : when  X 
look  on  your  face,  when  I hear  your  voice,  a certain  sereno 
and  tranquil  calm  creeps  over  and  lulls  thoughts — oh,  how 
feverish,  how  wild ! When  thou  art  gone,  the  day  seems  a 
shade  more  dark ; but  the  shadow  soon  flies.  I miss  thee 
not ; I think  not  o^  thee  ; no,  I love  thee  not ; and  I will 
give  myself  only  where  I love.” 

“But  I would  teach  thee  to  love  me  ; fear  it  not.  Nay, 

such  love  as  thou  describest,  in  our  tranquil  climates  is  the 

love  of  innocence  and  youth.” 

“ Of  innocence  ! ” said  Viola.  “ Is  it  so  ? Perhaps  ” — 
she  paused,  and  added,  with  an  effort,  “ Foreigner ! and 

wouldst  thou  wed  the  orphan ! Ah  ! thou  at  least  art  gener- 

ous. It  is  not  the  innocence  thou  wouldst  destroy  ! ” 
Glyndon  drew  back,  conscience-stricken. 

“ No,  it  may  not  be  ! ” she  said,  rising,  but  not  conscious 
of  the  thoughts,  half  of  shame,  half  suspicion,  that  passed 
through  the  mind  of  her  lover.  “ I<eave  me  and  forget  me. 
You  do  not  understand,  you  could  not  comprehend,  the 
nature  of  her  whom  you  think  to  love.  From  my  childhood 
upward,  I have  felt  as  if  I were  marked  out  for  some  strange 
and  preternatural  doom  ; as  if  I were  singled  from  my  kind. 
This  feeling  (and  oh,  at  times  it  is  one  of  delirious  and 
vague  delight,  at  others  of  the  darkest  gloom)  deepens  within 
me  day  by  day.  It  is  like  the  shadow  of  twilight,  spreading 
slowly  and  solemnly  around.  My  hour  approaches  ; a little 
while,  and  it  will  be  night ! ” 

As  she  spoke,  Glyndon  listened  with  visible  emotion  and 
perturbation.  “ Viola ! ” he  exclaimed,  as  she  ceased, 
“ your  words  more  than  ever  enchain  me  to  you.  As  you 
feel,  I feel.  I too  have  been  ever  haunted  with  a chill 
and  unearthly  foreboding.  Amidst  the  crowds  of  men  I 
have  felt  alone.  In  all  my  pleasures,  my  toils,  my  pursuits, 
a warning  voice  has  murmured  in  my  ear,  ‘ Time  has  a dark 
mystery  in  store  for  thy  manhood.’  When  you  spoke,  it  was 
as  the  voice  of  my  own  soul  1 ” 


ZANONL 


Viola  gazed  upon  him  in  mingled  wonder  and  fear.  Her 
countenance  v/as  as  white  as  marble  ; and  those  features,  so 
divine  in  their  rare  symmetry,  might  have  served  the  Greek 
with  a study  for  the  Pythoness,  when,  from  the  mystic  cavern 
and  the  bubbling  spring,  she  first  hears  the  voice  of  the 
inspiring  god.  Gradually  the  rigor  and  tension  of  that 
wonderful  face  relaxed,  the  color  returned,  the  pulse  beat  • 
the  heart  animated  the  frame. 

“ Tell  me,”  she  said,  turning  partially  aside,  “ tell  me,  haYC 
you  seen — do  you  know — a stranger  in  this  city  ? one  of 
whom  wild  stories  are  afloat  ? ” 

“ You  speak  of  Zanoni  ? I have  seen  him — I know  him — 
and  you  ? Ah  ! he,  too,  would  be  my  rival ! — he,  too,  would 
bear  thee  from  me  ! ” 

‘‘  You  err,”  said  Viola,  hastily,  and  with  a deep  sigh  ; “ he 
pleads  for  you ; he  informed  me  of  your  love  ; he  besought 
me  not — not  to  reject  it.” 

“ Strange  being ! incomprehensible  enigma ! Why  did  you 
name  him  ? ” 

“ Why,  ah ! I would  have  asked  whether,  when  you  first 
saw  him,  the  foreboding,  the  instinct,  of  which  you  spoke, 
came  on  you  more  fearfully,  more  intelligibly  than  before — - 
whether  you  felt  at  once  repelled  from  him,  yet  attracted 
towards  him — whether  you  felt — ” and  the  actress  spoke 
with  hurried  animation — “ that  with  him  was  connected  the 
secret  of  your  life  ? ” 

“ All  this  I felt,”  answered  Glyndon,  in  a trembling  voice, 
“ the  first  time  I was  in  his  presence.  Though  all  around 
me  was  gay — music,  amidst  lamp-lit  trees,  light  converse 
near,  and  heaven  without  a cloud  above, — my  knees  knocked 
together,  my  hair  bristled,  and  my  blood  curdled  like  ice. 
Since  then,  he  has  divided  my  thoughts  with  thee.” 

“ No  more,  no  more  ! ” said  Viola,  in  a stifled  tone ; “ there 
must  be  the  hand  of  fate  in  this,  I can  speak  to  you  no 
more  now.  Farewell ! ” She  sprang  past  him  into  the 
house  and  closed  the  door.  Glyndon  did  not  follow  her,  nor, 
strange  as  it  may  seem,  was  he  so  inclined.  The  thought 
and  recollection  of  that  moon-lit  hour  in  the  gardens,  of  the 
strange  address  of  Zanoni,  froze  up  all  human  passion. 
Viola  herself,  if  not  forgotten,-  shrunk  back  like  a shadow  in 
the  recesses  of  his  breast.  He  shivered  as  he  stepped  into 
the  sun-light,  and  musingly  retraced  his  steps  in  the  more 
populous  parts  of  that  liveliest  of  Italian  cities, 

§ 


m 


ZANONL 


BOOK  III. 

THEURGIA. 


CHAPTER  I. 

But  that  which  especially  distinguishes  the  brotherhood  is  their  marvelous  knowl 

edge  of  all  the  resources  of  medical  art.  They  work  not  by  charms,  but  simples. 

—~MS.  Account  of  the  Origin  and  Attribntes  of  the  true  RosicrucianSy  by  J, 

Von  D 

At  this  time  it  chanced  that  Viola  had  the  opportunity  to 
return  the  kindness  shown  to  her  by  the  friendly  musician, 
whose  house  had  received  and  sheltered  her  when  first  left 
an  orphan  on  the  world.  Old  Bernard!  had  brought  up  three 
sons  to  the  same  profession  as  himself,  and  they  had  lately 
left  Naples  to  seek  their  fortunes  in  the  wealthier  cities  of 
northern  Europe,  where  the  musical  market  was  less  over- 
stocked. There  was  only  left  to  glad  the  household  of  his 
aged  wife  and  himself,  a lively,  prattling,  dark-eyed  girl,  of 
some  eight  years  old,  the  child  of  his  second  son,  whose 
mother  had  died  in  giving  her  birth.  It  so  happened  that, 
about  a month  previous  to  the  date  on  which  our  story  has 
now  entered,  a paralytic  affection  had  disabled  Bernard!  from 
the  duties  of  his  calling.  He  had  been  always  a social,  harm- 
less, improvident,  generous  fellow — living  on  his  gains  from 
day  to  day,  as  if  the  day  of  sickness  and  old  age  never  was 
to  arrive.  Though  he  received  a small  allowance  for  his 
past  services,  it  ill-sufficed  for  his  wants ; neither  was  he  free 
from  debt.  Poverty  stood  at  his  hearth — when  Viola’s  grate- 
ful smile  and  liberal  hand  came  to  chase  the  grim  fiend  away. 
But  it  is  not  enough  to  a heart  truly  kind  to  send  and  give  ; 
more  charitable  is  it  to  visit  and  console.  “ Forget  not  thy 
father’s  friend.”  So  almost  daily  went  the  bright  idol  of 
Naples  to  the  house  of  Bernard!.  Suddenly  a heavier  afflic- 
tion than  either  poverty  or  the  palsy  befell  the  old  musieian. 


ZANONI. 


\\t 

His  grand-child,  his  little  Beatrice,  fell  ill,  suddenly  and 
dangerously  ill,  of  one  of  those  rapid  fevers  common  to  the 
south ; and  Viola  was  summoned  from  her  strange  and 
fearful  reveries  of  love  or  fancy,  to  the  sick-bed  of  the  young 
sufferer. 

The  child  was  exceedingly  fond  of  Viola,  and  the  old 
people  thought  that  her  mere  presence  would  bring  healing ; 
but  when  Viola  arrived,  Beatrice  was  insensible.  Fortunately, 
there  was  no  performance  that  evening  at  San  Carlo,  and  she 
resolved  to  stay  the  night,  and  partake  its  fearful  cares  and 
dangerous  vigil. 

But  during  the  night,  the  child  grew  worse,  the  physician 
(the  leechcraft  has  never  been  very  skillful  at  Naples)  shook 
his  powdered  head,  kept  his  aromatics  at  his  nostrils,  admin- 
istered his  palliatives,  and  departed.  Old  Bernard!  seated 
himself  by  the  bed-side  in  stern  silence  : here  was  the  last 

tie  that  bound  him  to  life.  Well,  let  the  anchor  break,  and 
the  battered  ship  go  down ! It  was  an  iron  resolve,  more 
fearful  than  sorrow.  An  old  man,  with  one  foot  in  the  grave, 
watching  by  the  couch  of  a dying  child,  is  one  of  the  most 
awful  spectacles  in  human  calamities.  The  wife  was  more 
active,  more  bustling,  more  hopeful,  and  more  tearful.  Viola 
took  heed  of  all  three.  But  towards  dawn,  Beatrice’s  state 
became  so  obviously  alarming,  that  Viola  herself  began  to 
despair.  At  this  time  she  saw  the  old  woman  suddenly  rise 
from  before  the  image  of  the  saint  at  which  she  had  been 
kneeling,  wrap  herself  in  her  cloak  and  hood,  and  quietly 
quit  the  chamber.  Viola  stole  after  her. 

“ It  is  cold  for  thee,  good  mother,  to  brave  the  air ; let  me 
go  for  the  physician  ? ” 

“ Child,  I am  not  going  to  him.  I have  heard  of  one  in 
the  city  who  has  been  tender  to  the  poor,  and  who,  they  say, 
has  cured  the  sick  when  physicians  failed.  I will  go  and  say 
to  him,  ‘ Signor,  we  are  beggars  in  all  else,  but  yesterday  we 
were  rich  in  love.  We  are  at  the  close  of  life,  but  we  lived 
in  our  grandchild’s  childhood.  Give  us  back  our  wealth — 
give  us  back  our  youth.  Let  us  die  blessing  God  that  the 
thing  we  love  survives  us.” 

She  was  gone.  Why  did  thy  heart  beat,  Viola  ? The  in- 
fant’s sharp  cry  of  pain  called  her  back  to  the  couch ; and 
there  still  sat  the  old  man,  unconscious  of  his  wife’s  move- 
ments, not  stirring,  his  eyes  glazing  fast  as  they  watched  the 
agonies  of  that  slight  frame.  By  degrees  the  wail  of  pain 
died  into  a low  moan — the  convulsions  grew  feebler  but  more 


xiO 


ZANOm. 


frequent — the  glow  of  fever  faded  into  the  blue,  pale  tinge 
that  settles  into  the  last  bloodless  marble. 

The  daylight  came  broader  and  clearer  through  the  case- 
ment— steps  were  heard  on  the  stairs — the  old  woman  entered 
hastily : she  rushed  to  the  bed,  cast  a glance  on  the  patient 
— “ She  lives  yet,  Signor — she  lives  ! ” 

Viola  raised  her  eyes — the  child’s  head  was  pillowed  on 
her  bosom — and  she  beheld  Zanoni.  He  smiled  on  her  with 
a tender  and  soft  approval,  and  took  the  infant  from  her  arms. 
Yet  even  then,  as  she  saw  him  bending  silently  over  that  pale 
face,  a superstitious  fear  mingled  with  her  rising  hopes. 
“ Was  it  by  lawful — by  holy  art  that — ” her  self  questioning 
ceased  abruptly ; for  his  dark  eye  turned  to  her  as  if  he  reac 
her  soul,  and  his  aspect  accused  her  conscience  for  its  suspi 
cion,  for  it  spoke  reproach  not  unmingled  with  disdain. 

“ Be  comforted,”  he  said,  gently  turning  to  the  old  man ; 
^*the  danger  is  not  beyond  the  reach  of  human  skill ; and 
taking  from  his  bosom  a small  crystal  vase,  he  mingled  a few 
drops  with  water.  No  sooner  did  this  medicine  moisten  the 
infant’s  lips,  than  it  seemed  to  produce  an  astonishing  effect. 
The  color  revived  rapidly  on  the  lips  and  cheeks ; in  a few 
moments  the  sufferer  slept  calmly,  and  with  the  regular 
breathing  of  painless  sleep.  And  then  the  old  man  rose, 
rigidly,  as  a corpse  might  rise — looked  down — listened,  and 
creeping  gently  away,  stole  to  the  corner  of  the  room,  and 
wept,  and  thanked  Heaven  ! 

Now,  old  Bernard!  had  been,  hitherto,  but  a cold  believer  *, 
sorrov;  had  never  before  led  him  aloft  from  earth.  Old  as  he 
was,  he  had  never  before  thought  as  the  old  should  think  of 
death — that  endangered  life  of  the  young  had  wakened  up 
the  careless  soul  of  age.  Zanoni  whispered  to  the  wife,  and 
she  drew  the  old  man  quietly  from  the  room. 

“ Dost  thou  fear  to  leave  me  an  hour  with  thy  charge, 
Viola  ? Thinkest  thou  still  that  this  knowledge  is  of  the 
fiend  ? ” 

“ Ah,”  said  Viola,  humbled  and  yet  rejoiced,  “ forgive  me, 
forgive  me.  Signor.  Thou  biddest  the  young  live  and  the  old 
pray.  My  thoughts  never  shall  wrong  thee  more  I ” 

Before  the  sun  rose,  Beatrice  was  out  of  danger;  at  noon, 
Zanoni  escaped  from  the  blessings  of  the  aged  pair,  and  as 
he  closed  the  door  of  the  house,  he  found  Viola  awaiting  him 
without. 

She  stood  before  him  timidly,  her  hands  crossed  meekly  oa 
her  bosom^  her  downcast  eyes  swimming  with  tears* 


ZANOm, 


117 


“ Do  not  let  me  be  the  only  one  you  leave  unhappy  ! ’’ 

And  what  cure  can  the  herbs  and  anodynes  effect  foi 
thee  ? If  thou  canst  so  readily  believe  ill  of  those  who  have 
aided  and  yet  would  serve  thee ; thy  disease  is  of  the  heart ; 
and — nay,  weep  not ! nurse  of  the  sick,  and  comforter  of  the 
sad,  I should  rather  approve  than  chide  thee=  Forgive  thee  I 
Life,  that  ever  needs  forgiveness,  has,  for  its  first  duty  to  for- 
give. 

“ No,  do  not  forgive  me  yet.  I do  not  deserve  a pardon : 
for  even  now,  while  I feel  how  ungrateful  I was  to  believe, 
suspect,  aught  injurious  and  false  to  my  preserver,  my  tears 
flow  from  happiness,  not  remorse.  Oh  ! ” she  continued,  witn 
a simple  fervor,  unconscious,  in  her  innocence  and  her  genen 
ous  emotions,  of  all  the  secrets  she  betrayed — “ thou  knowest 
not  how  bitter  it  was  to  believe  thee  not  more  good,  more 
pure,  more  sacred  than  all  the  world.  And  when  I saw  thee 
— the  wealthy,  the  noble,  coming  from  thy  palace  to  minister 
to  the  sufferings  of  the  hovel — when  I heard  those  blessings 
of  the  poor  breathed  upon  thy  parting  footsteps,  I felt  my 
very  self  exalted — good  in  thy  goodness — noble  at  least  in 
those  thoughts  that  did  not  wrong  thee.” 

And  thinkest  thou,  Viola,  that  in  a mere  act  of  science 
there  is  so  much  virtue  ? The  commonest  leech  will  tend  the 
sick  for  his  fee.  Are  prayers  and  blessings  a less  reward  that 
gold  ? 

And  mine,  then,  are  not  worthless  ? thou  wilt  accept  of 
mine  ? 

“ Ah,  Viola  I ” exclaimed  Zanoni,  with  a sudden  passion, 
that  covered  her  face  with  blushes,  ‘‘  thou  only,  methinks,  on 
all  the  earth,  hast  the  power  to  wound  or  delight  me ! ” He 
checked  himself,  and  his  face  became  grave  and  sad.  “ And 
this,’*  he  added,  in  an  altered  tone,  “ because,  if  thou  wouldst 
heed  my  counsels,  methinks  I could  guide  a guileless  heart  to 
a happy  fate.” 

“ Thy  counsels ! I will  obey  them  all.  Mould  me  tc  what 
thou  wilt.  In  thine  absence,  I am  as  a child  that  fears  every 
shadow  in  the  dark ; in  thy  presence,  my  soul  expands  and 
the  whole  world  seems  calm  with  a celestial  noonday.  Do 
not  deny  to  me  that  presence.  I am  fatherless,  and  ignorant, 
and  alone ! ” 

Zanoni  averted  his  face,  and,  after  a moment’s  silence,  re« 
plied,  calmly’ — 

Be  it  so.  Sister,  I will  visit  thee  again  1 ” 


ii8 


ZANONI. 


CHAPTER  II. 

Gilding  pale  streams  with  heavenly  alchemy. — Shakspeare. 

Who  so  happy  as  Viola  now ! A dark  load  was  lifted  from 
her  heart ; her  step  seemed  to  tread  on  air ; she  would  have 
sung  for  very  delight  as  she  went  gaily  home.  It  is  such 
happiness  to  the  pure  to  love — but  oh,  such  more  than 
happiness  to  believe  in  the  worth  of  the  one  beloved ! 
Between  them  there  might  be  human  obstacles — wealth,  rank, 
man’s  little  world.  But  there  was  no  longer  that  dark  gulf 
which  the  imagination  recoils  to  dwell  on,  and  which  separates 
for  ever  soul  from  soul.  He  did  not  love  her  in  return. 
Love  her ! But  did  she  ask  for  love  ? Did  she  herself  love  ? 
No ; or  she  would  never  have  been  at  once  so  humble  and  so 
bold.  How  merrily  the  ocean  murmured  in  her  ear ; how 
radiant  an  aspect  the  commonest  passer-by  seemed  to  wear  I 
She  gained  her  home — she  looked  upon  the  tree,  glancing, 
with  fantastic  branches,  in  the  sun.  “ Yes,  brother  mine  ! ” 
she  said,  laughing  in  her  joy,  “ like  thee,  I have  struggled  to 
the  light  ? ” 

She  had  never  hitherto,  like  the  more  instructed  daughters 
of  the  North,  accustomed  herself  to  that  delicious  con- 
fessional, the  transfusion  of  thought  tc  writing.  Now, 
suddenly,  her  heart  felt  an  impulse  ; a new-born  instinct, 
that  bade  it  commune  with  itself,  bade  it  disentangle  its  web 
of  golden  fancies — made  her  wish  to  look  upon  her  inmost 
self  as  in  a glass.  Unsprung  from  the  embrace  of  Love  and 
Soul — the  Eros  and  the  Psyche — their  beautiful  offspring, 
Genius!  She  blushed,  she  sighed,  she  trembled  as  she 
wrote.  And  from  the  fresh  World  that  she  had  built  for 
herself,  she  was  awakened  to  prepare  for  the  glittering  stage. 
How  dull  became  the  music,  how  dim  the  scene,  so  exquisite 
and  so  bright  of  old.  Stage,  thou  art  the  Fairy  Land  to  the 
vision  of  the  worldly.  Fancy,  whose  music  is  not  heard  by 
men,  whose  scenes  shift  not  by  mortal  hand,  as  the  Stage  to 
the  present  world,  art  thou  to  the  Future  and  the  Past  I 


CHAPTER  HI.  . 

in  faith,  I do  not  love  thee  with  mine  eyes. — ShakspearIw 

The  next  day,  at  noon,  Zanoni  visited  Viola ; and  the 
next  day,  and  the  next,  and  again  the  next ; — days,  that  to 


ZANOm. 


1 19 

her  seemed  like  a special  time  set  apart  from  the  rest  of  life. 
And  yet  he  never  spoke  to  her  in  that  language  of  flattery, 
and  almost  of  adoration,  to  which  she  had  been  accustomed. 
Perhaps  his  very  coldness,  so  gentle  as  it  was,  assisted  to 
this  mysterious  charm.  He  talked  to  her  much  of  her  past 
life,  and  she  was  scarcely  surprised  (she  now  never  thought 
of  terror)  to  perceive  how  much  of  that  past  seemed  known 
to  him. 

He  made  her  speak  to  him  of  her  father ; he  made  her 
recall  some  of  the  airs  of  Pisani’s  wild  music.  And  those 
airs  seemed  to  charm  and  lull  him  into  reverie. 

“ As  music  was  to  the  musician,”  said  he,  “ may  science  be 
to  the  wise.  Your  father  looked  abroad  in  the  world;  all 
was  discord  to  the  fine  sympathies  that  he  felt  with  the 
harmonies  that  daily  and  nightly  float  to  the  throne  of 
Heaven.  Life,  with  its  noisy  ambition  and  its  mean  pas- 
sions, is  so  poor  and  base  ! Out  of  his  soul  he  created  the 
life  and  the  world  for  which  his  soul  was  fitted.  Viola,  thou 
art  the  daughter  of  that  life,  and  wilt  be  the  denizen  of  that 
world.” 

In  his  earlier  visits  he  did  not  speak  of  Glyndon.  The 
day  soon  came  on  which  he  renewed  the  subject.  And  so 
trustful,  obedient,  and  entire  was  the  allegiance  that  Viola 
now  owned  to  his  dominion,  that,  unwelcome  as  that  subject 
was,  she  restrained  her  heart,  and  listened  to  him  in  silence. 

At  last  he  said,  “ Thou  hast  promised  thou  wilt  obey  my 
counsels,  and  if,  Viola,  I should  ask  thee,  nay  adjure,  to 
accept  this  stranger’s  hand,  and  share  his  fate,  should  he 
offer  to  thee  such  a lot — wouldst  thou  refuse  ? ” 

And  then  she  pressed  back  the  tears  that  gushed  to  her 
eyes — and  with  a strange  pleasure  in  the  midst  of  pain — the 
pleasure  of  one  who  sacrifices  heart  itself  to  the  one  who 
commands  that  heart  she  answered,  falteringly — “ If  thou 
canst  ordain  it — why ” 

“ Speak  on.” 

“ Dispose  of  me  as  thou  wait ! ” 

Zanoni  stood  in  silence  for  some  moments  ; he  saw  the 
struggle  which  the  girl  thought  she  concealed  so  well ; he 
made  an  involuntary  movement  toward  her,  and  pressed  her 
hand  to  his  lips  ; it  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  departed 
even  so  far  from  a certain  austerity,  which  perhaps  made  her 
fear  him  and  her  own  thoughts  the  less. 

“ Viola,”  said  he,  and  his  voice  trembled,  “ the  danger 
that  I can  avert  no  more,  if  thou  linger  still  in  NapleSi 


120 


ZANom. 


comes  hourly  near  and  nearer  to  thee  ! On  the  third  day 
from  this,  thy  fate  must  be  decided.  I accept  thy  promise. 
Before  the  last  hour  of  that  day,  come  what  may,  I shall 
see  thee  again,  here^  at  thine  own  house.  Till  then,  fare- 
well • ’’ 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Between  two  worlds  life  hovers  like  a star 

’Twixt  night  and  morn. 

Byron. 

When  Glyndon  left  Viola,  as  recorded  in  the  concluding 
chapter  of  the  second  division  of  this  work,  he  was  absorbed 
again  in  those  mystical  desires  and  conjectures  which  the 
haunting  recollection  of  Zanoni  always  served  to  create. 
And  as  he  wandered  through  the  streets,  he  was  scarcely  con- 
scious of  his  own  movements  till,  in  the  mechanism  of  cus- 
tom, he  found  himself  in  the  midst  of  one  of  the  noble  col- 
lections of  pictures  which  form  the  boast  of  those  Italian 
cities  whose  glory  is  in  the  past.  Thither  he  had  been  wont, 
almost  daily,  to  repair,  for  the  gallery  contained  some  of  the 
finest  specimens  of  a master  especially  the  object  of  his 
enthusiasm  and  study.  There,  before  the  works  of  Salvator, 
he  had  often  paused  in  deep  and  earnest  reverence.  The 
striking  characteristic  of  that  artist  is  the  Vigor  of  Will; 
void  of  the  elevated  idea  of  abstract  beauty,  which  furnishes 
a model  and  archetype  to  the  genius  of  more  illustrious  order, 
the  singular  energy  of  the  man  hews  out  of  the  rock  a dignity 
of  his  own.  His  images  have  the  majesty,  not  of  the  god, 
but  the  savage ; utterly  free,  like  the  sublimer  schools,  from 
the  commonplace  of  imitation, — apart,  with  them,  from  the 
conventional  littleness  of  the  Real, — he  grasps  the  imagina- 
tion, and  compels  it  to  follow  him,  not  to  the  heaven,  but 
through  all  that  is  most  wild  and  fantastic  upon  earth ; a 
sorcery,  nor  of  the  starry  magian,  but  of  the  gloomy  wizard 
— a man  of  romance,  whose  heart  beat  strongly,  griping  art 
with  a hand  of  iron,  and  enforcing  it  to  idealize  the  scenes  of 
his  actual  life.  Before  this  powerful  will,  Glyndon  drew  back 
more  awed  and  admiring  than  before  the  calmer  beauty 
which  rose  from  the  soul  of  Raffaele,  like  Venus  from  the 
deep.  And  now,  as  awaking  from  his  reverie,  he  stood  op- 
posite to  that  wild  and  magnificent  gloom  of  Nature  which 
frowned  on  him  from  the  canvas,  the  very  leaves  on  those 


ZANOm, 


121 


gnome-like,  distorted  trees,  seemed  to  rustle  sibylline  secrets 
in  his  ear.  Those  rugged  and  sombre  Appenines,  the  cata- 
ract that  dashed  between,  suited  more  than  the  actual  scenes 
would  have  done,  the  mood  and  temper  of  his  mind.  The 
stern,  uncouth  forms  that  rest  on  the  crags  below,  and  dwarfed 
by  the  giant  size  of  the  Matter  that  reigned  around  them 
impressed  him  with  the  might  of  Nature  and  the  littleness  of 
Man.  As  in  genius  of  the  more  spiritual  cast,  the  living  man, 
and  the  soul  that  lives  in  him,  are  studiously  made  the  promi- 
nent image ; and  the  mere  accessories  of  scene  kept  down, 
and  cast  back,  as  if  to  show  that  the  exile  from  paradise  is 
yet  the  monarch  of  the  outward  world, — so,  in  the  landscapes 
of  Salvator,  the  tree,  the  mountain,  the  waterfall,  become  the 
principal,  and  man  himself  dwindles  to  the  accessory.  The 
Master  seems  to  reign  supreme,  and  its  true  lord  to  creep 
beneath  its  stupendous  shadow.  Inert  matter  giving  interest 
to  the  immortal  man,  not  the  immortal  man  to  the  inert  mat- 
ter. A terrible  philosophy  in  art ! 

While  something  of  these  thoughts  passed  through  the 
mind  of  the  painter,  he  felt  his  arm  touched,  and  saw  Nicot 
by  his  side. 

“ A great  master,”  said  Nicot,  “ but  I do  not  love  the 
school.” 

“ I do  not  love,  but  I am  awed  by  it.  We  love  the  beauti- 
ful and  serene,  but  we  have  a feeling  as, deep  as  love  for  the 
terrible  and  dark.” 

“True,”  said  Nicot,  thoughtfully.  “And  yet  that  feeling 
is  only  a superstition.  The  nursery,  with  its  tales  of  ghosts 
and  goblins,  is  the  cradle  of  many  of  our  impressions  in  the 
world.  But  art  should  not  seek  to  pander  to  our  ignorance  : 
art  should  represent  only  truths.  I confess  that  Raffaele 
pleases  me  less  because  I have  no  sympathy  with  his  sub- 
jects. His  saints  and  virgins  are  to  me  only  men  and  women.” 

“ And  from  what  source  should  painting  then  take  its 
themes  ? ” 

“ From  history,  without  doubt,”  returned  Nicot,  pragmatic- 
ally,— “ those  great  Roman  actions  which  inspire  men  with 
sentiments  of  liberty  and  valor ; with  the  virtues  of  a republic. 
I wish  the  cartoons  of  Raffaele  had  illustrated  the  story  of  the 
Horatii ; but  it  remains  for  France  and  her  Republic  to  give 
to  posterity  the  new  and  the  true  school,  which  could  never 
have  arisen  in  a country  of  priestcraft  and  delusion.” 

“ And  the  saints  and  virgins  of  Raffaele  are  to  you  only 
men  and  women  ? ” repeated  Glyndon,  going  back  to  Nicot’s 


132 


ZAmm. 


candid  confession  in  amaze,  and  scarcely  hearing  the  deduc- 
tions the  Frenchmam  drew  from  his  proposition. 

“ Assuredly.  Ha,  ha ! ” and  Nicot  laughed  hideously, “ do 
you  ask  me  to  believe  in  the  calendar,  or  what  ” 

“ But  the  ideal  ? ” 

“ The  ideal ! ” interrupted  Nicot.  “ Stuff  ! The  Italian 
critics,  and  your  English  Reynolds,  have  turned  your  head. 
They  are  so  fond  of  their  ‘gusto  grande,’  and  their  ‘ ideal  beau- 
ty that  speaks  to  the  soul ! ’ — soul ! — is  there  a soul I under- 
stand a man  when  he  talks  of  composing  for  a refined  taste — 
for  an  educated  and  intelligent  reason — for  a sense  that  com- 
prehends truths.  But  as  for  the  soul — bah ! — we  are  but 
modifications  of  matter,  and  painting  is  modification  of  matter 
also.” 

Glyndon  turned  his  eyes  from  the  picture  before  him  to 
Nicot,  and  from  Nicot  to  the  picture.  The  dogmatist  gave  a 
voice  to  the  thoughts  which  the  sight  of  the  picture  had  awak- 
ened. He  shook  his  head  without  reply. 

“ Tell  me,”  said  Nicot,  abruptly,  “ that  impostor — Zanoni  ? 
— oh  ! I have  now  learned  his  name  and  quackeries  forsooth 
— what  did  he  say  to  thee  of  me  ? ” 

“ Of  thee  ? nothing ; but  to  warn  me  against  thy  doctrines.” 

“ Aha ! was  that  all  ? ” said  Nicot.  “ He  is  a notable  in- 
ventor, and  since,  when  we  met  last,  I unmasked  his  delusions, 
I thought  he  might  retaliate  by  some  tale  of  slander.” 

“ Unmasked  his  delusions  ! — how  ? ” 

“ A dull  and  long  story  : he  wished  to  teach  an  old  doting 
friend  of  mine  his  secrets  of  prolonged  life  and  philosophical 
alchemy.  I advise  thee  to  renounce  so  discreditable  an  ac- 
quaintance.” 

With  that,  Nicot  nodded  significantly,  and,  not  wishing  to 
be  further  questioned,  went  his  way. 

Glyndon’s  mind  at  that  moment  had  escaped  to  his  art, 
and  the  comments  and  presence  of  Nicot  had  been  no  wel- 
come interruption.  He  turned  from  the  landscape  of  Salva- 
tor, and  his  eye  falling  on  a Nativity  by  Corregio,  the  contrast 
between  the  two  ranks  of  genius  struck  him  as  a discovery. 
That  exquisite  repose — that  perfect  sense  of  beauty — that 
strength  without  effort — that  breathing  moral  of  high  art, 
which  speaks  to  the  mind  through  the  eye,  and  raises  the 
thoughts,  by  the  aid  of  tenderness  and  love,  to  the  regions  of 
awe  and  wonder, — ay  ! that  was  the  true  school.  He  quitted 
the  gallery  with  reluctant  steps  and  inspired  ideas  ; he  sought 
his  own  home.  Here,  pleased  not  to  find  the  sober  Mervale, 


ZANONI. 


123 


he  leant  his  face  on  his  hands,  and  endeavored  to  recall  the 
words  of  Zanoni  in  their  last  meeting.  Yes,  he  felt  Nicot^s 
talk  even  on  art  was  crime  ; it  debased  the  imagination  itself 
to  mechanism.  Could  he,  who  saw  nothing  in  the  soul  but  a 
combination  of  matter,  prate  of  schools  that  should  excel  a 
Raffaele  ? Yes,  art  was  magic  ; and  as  he  owned  the  truth  of 
the  aphorism,  he  could  comprehend  that  in  magic  there  may 
be  religion,  for  religion  is  an  essential  art.  His  old  ambition,' 
freeing  itself  from  the  frigid  prudence  with  which  Mervale 
sought  to  desecrate  all  images  less  substantial  than  the  golden 
calf  of  the  world,  revived,  and  stirred,  and  kindled.  The  sub- 
tle detection  of  what  he  conceived  to  be  an  error  in  the  school 
he  had  hitherto  adopted,  made  more  manifest  to  him  by  the 
grinning  commentary  of  Nicot,  seemed  to  open  to  him  a new 
world  of  invention.  He  seized  the  happy  moment — he  placed 
before  him  the  colors  and  the  canvass.  Lost  in  his  concep- 
tions of  a fresh  ideal,  his  mind  was  lifted  aloft  into  the  airy 
realms  of  beauty  ; dark  thoughts,  unhallowed  desires,  vanished. 
Zanoni  was  right : the  material  world  shrunk  from  his  gaze : 
he  viewed  nature  as  from  a mountain-top ; afar : and  as  the 
waves  of  his  unquiet  heart  became  calm  and  still,  again  the 
angel  eyes  of  Viola  beamed  on  them  as  a holy  star. 

Locking  himself  in  his  chamber,  he  refused  even  the  visits 
of  Mervale.  Intoxicated  with  the  pure  air  of  his  fresh  exist 
ence,  he  remained  for  three  days,  and  almost  nights,  absorbed 
in  his  employment;  but  on  the  fourth  morning  came  the 
reaction  to  which  all  labor  is  exposed.  He  woke  listless  and 
fatigued ; and  as  he  cast  his  eyes  on  the  canvas,  the  glory 
seemed  to  have  gone  from  it.  Humiliating  recollections  of 
the  great  masters  he  aspired  to  rival  forced  themselves  upon 
him  ; defects  before  unseen  magnified  themselves  to  deformi- 
ties in  his  languid  and  discontented  eyes.  He  touched  and 
retouched,  but  his  hand  failed  him  ; he  threw  down  his  instru- 
ments in  despair ; he  opened  his  casement ; the  day  without 
was  bright  and  lovely ; the  street  was  crowded  with  that  life 
which  is  ever  so  joyous  aud  affluent  in  the  animated  popula- 
tion of  Naples.  He  saw  the  lover,  as  he  passed,  conversing 
with  his  mistress  by  those  mute  gestures  which  have  survived 
all  changes  of  languages,  the  same  now  as  when  the  Etruscan 
painted  yon  vases  in  the  Museo  Borbonico.  Light  from  with- 
out beckond  his  youth  to  its  mirth  and  pleasures  ; and  the 
dull  walls  within,  latelv  large  enough  to  comprise  heaven  and 
earth,  seemed  now  cabined  and  confined  as  a felon’s  prison. 


124 


ZAA^OJVI. 


He  welcomed  the  step  of  Mervale  at  his  threshold,  and  un. 
barred  the  door. 

“And  is  that  all  you  have  done  ? ” said  Mervale,  glancing 
disdainfullv  at  the  canvas.  ‘‘  Is  it  for  this  that  you  have  shut 
yourself  out  from  the  sunny  days  and  moon-lit  nights  of 
Naples  ? ” 

“ While  the  fit  was  on  me,  I basked  in  a brighter  sun,  and 
imbibed  the  voluptuous  luxury  of  a softer  moon.” 

“You  own  that  the  fit  is  over.  Well,  that  is  some  sign  of 
returning  sense.  After  all,  it  is  better  to  daub  canvas  for 
three  days  than  make  a fool  of  yourself  for  life.  This  little 
siren  ? ” 

“ Be  dumb  ! I hate  to  hear  you  name  her.” 

Mervale  drew  his  chair  nearer  to  Glyndon’s,  thrust  his 
hands  deep  in  his  breeches-pockets,  and  was  about  to  begin  a 
serious  strain  of  expostulation,  when  a knock  was  heard  at 
the  door,  and  Nicot,  without  waiting  for  leave,  obtruded  his 
ugly  head. 

“ Good-day,  man  cher  confi'ere.  I wished  to  speak  to  you. 
Hein  ! you  have  been  at  work,  I see.  This  is  well — very  well ! 
A bold  outline — ^great  freedom  in  that  right  hand.  But,  holdl 
is  the  composition  good  ? You  have  not  got  the  great  py-- 
ramidal  form.  Don’t  you  think,  too,  that  you  have  lost  the 
advantage  of  contrast  in  this  figure ; since  the  right  leg  is 
put  forward,  surely  the  right  arm  should  be  put  back } Peste ! 
but  that  little  finger  is  very  fine  ! ” 

Mervale  detested  Nicot.  For  all  speculators,  Utopians, 
alterers  of  the  world,  and  wanderers  from  the  high  road, 
were  equally  hateful  to  him  ; but  he  could  have  hugged  the 
Frenchman  at  that  moment.  He  saw  in  Glyndon’s  expressive 
countenance  all  the  weariness  and  disgust  he  endured.  After 
so  wrapt  a study,  to  be  prated  to  about  pyramidal  forms,  and 
right  arms,  and  right  legs — the  accidence  of  art — the  whole 
conception  to  be  over-looked,  and  the  criticism  to  end  in 
approval  of  the  little  finger ! 

“ Oh,”  said  Glyndon  peevishly,  throwing  the  cloth  over  his 
design,  “ enough  of  my  poor  performance.  What  is  it  you 
have  to  say  to  me  ? ” 

“ In  the  first  place,”  said  Nicot,  huddling  himself  together 
upon  a stool — “ in  the  first  place,  this  Signor  Zanoni — this 
second  Cagliostro — who  disputes  my  doctrines  I (no  doubt — 
a spy  of  the  man  Capet)  I am  not  vindictive ; as  Helvetius 
says,  ‘our  errors  arise  from  our  passions.^  I keep  mine  in 
order  ; but  it  is  virtuous  to  hate  in  the  cause  of  mankind  j I 


ZANONL 


would  I had  the  denouncing  and  judging  of  Signor  Zanoni  at 
Paris.’'  And  Nicot’s  small  eyes  shot  fire,  and  he  gnashed  his 
teeth. 

“ Have  you  any  new  cause  to  hate  him  } ” 

“ Yes,”  said  Nicot,  fiercely.  “ Yes,  I hear  he  is  courting 
the  girl  I mean  to  marry.’" 

“ You  ! Whom  do  you  speak  of  ? ” 

“ The  celebrated  Pisani ! She  is  divinely  handsome.  She 
would  make  my  fortune  in  a republic.  And  a republic  we 
shall  have  before  the  year  is  out.” 

Mervale  rubbed  his  hands,  and  chuckled.  Glyndon  colored 
with  rage  and  shame. 

“ Do  you  know  the  Signora  Pisani  ? Have  you  ever 
spoken  to  her  ? ” 

“ Not  yet.  But  when  I make  up  my  mind  to  anything,  it 
is  soon  done.  I am  about  to  return  to  Paris.  They  write 
me  word  that  a handsome  wife  advances  the  career  of  a 
patriot.  The  age  of  prejudice  is  over.  The  sublimer  virtues 
begin  to  be  understood.  I shall  take  back  the  handsomest 
wife  in  Europe.” 

“ Be  quiet ! What  are  you  about  ? ” said  Mervale,  seizing 
Glyndon  as  he  saw  him  advance  towards  the  Frenchman,  his 
eyes  sparkling,  and  his  hands  clenched. 

“ Sir  ! ” said  Glyndon,  between  his  teeth,  “ you  know  not 
of  whom  you  thus  speak.  Do  you  affect  to  suppose  that 
Viola  Pisani  would  accept  ? ” 

“ No  ! if  she  could  get  a better  offer,”  said  Mervale,  looking 
up  to  the  ceiling. 

‘‘A  better  offer.?  You  don’t  understand  me,”  said  Nicot. 
“ I,  Jean  Nicot,  propose  to  marry  the  girl ; marry  her!  Others 
may  make  her  more  liberal  offers,  but  no  one,  I apprehend, 
would  make  one  so  honorable.  I alone  have  pity  on  her 
friendless  situation.  Besides,  according  to  the  dawning  state 
of  things,  one  will  always,  in  France,  be  able  to  get  rid  of  a 
wife  whenever  one  wishes.  We  shall  have  new  laws  of 
divorce.  Do  you  imagine  that  an  Italian  girl — and  in  no 
country  in  the  world  are  maidens,  it  seems,  more  chaste 
(though  wives  may  console  themselves  with  virtue  more 
philosophical), — would  refuse  the  hand  of  an  artist  for  the 
settlements  of  a prince  ? No  ; I think  better  of  the  Pisani 
than  you  do.  I shall  hasten  to  introduce  myself  to  her.” 

“ I wish  you  all  success.  Monsieur  Nicot,”  said  Mervale, 
rising,  and  shaking  him  heartily  by  the  hand. 

Glyndon  cast  at  them  both  a disdainful  glance- 


126 


ZANONI. 


“ Perhaps,  Monsieur  Nicot,”  said  he  at  length,  constiaining 
his  lips  into  a bitter  smile,  “ perhaps  you  may  have  rivals.” 

‘‘  So  much  the  better,”  replied  Monsieur  Nicot,  carelessly, 
kicking  his  heels  together,  and  appearing  absorbed  in  admi- 
ration at  the  size  of  his  large  feet. 

“ I myself  admire  Viola  Pisani.” 

“ Every  painter  must ! ” 

“ I may  offer  her  marriage  as  well  as  yourself.” 

“ That  would  be  folly  in  you,  though  wisdom  in  me.  You 
would  not  know  how  to  draw  profit  from  the  speculation  ! 
Cher  confrere^  you  have  prejudices.” 

“ You  do  not  dare  to  say  you  would  make  profit  from  your 
own  wife  ? ” 

“ The  virtuous  Cato  lent  his  wife  to  a friend.  I love  virtue, 
and  I cannot  do  better  than  imitate  Cato.  But  to  be  serious 
— I do  not  fear  you  as  a rival.  You  are  good-looking,  and  I 
am  ugly.  But  you  are  irresolute,  and  I decisive.  While  you 
are  uttering  fine  phrases,  I shall  say,  simply,  ‘ I have  a bon 
Hat.  Will  you  marry  me  ? ’ So  do  your  worst,  cher  confrere. 
Au  revoir,  behind  the  scenes  ! ” 

So  saying,  Nicot  rose,  stretched  his  long  arms  and  short 
legs,  yawned  till  he  showed  all  his  ragged  teeth  from  ear  to 
ear,  pressed  down  his  cap  on  his  shaggy  head  with  an  air  of 
defiance,  and  casting  over  his  left  shoulder  a glance  of 
triumph  and  malice,  at  the  indignant  Glyndon,  sauntered  out 
of  the  room. 

Mervale  burst  into  a violent  fit  of  laughter.  “ See  how 
your  Viola  is  estimated  by  your  friend.  A fine  victory,  to 
carry  her  off  from  the  ugliest  dog  between  Lapland  and  the 
Calmucks.” 

Glyndon  was  yet  too  indignant  to  answer,  when  a new 
visitor  arrived.  It  was  Zanoni  himself.  Mervale,  on  whom 
the  appearance  and  aspect  of  this  personage  imposed  a 
kind  of  reluctant  deference,  which  he  was  unwilling  to 
acknowledge,  still  more  to  betray,  nodded  to  Glyndon,  and 
saying,  simply,  “ More  when  I see  you  again,”  left  the 
painter  and  his  unexpected  visitor. 

“ I see,”  said  Zanoni,  lifting  the  cloth  from  the  canvas, 
that  you  have  not  slighted  the  advice  I gave  you.  Courage, 
young  artist ; this  is  an  escape  from  the  schools  ; this  is  full 
of  the  bold  self-confidence  of  real  genius.  You  had  no 
Nicot — no  Mervale  at  your  elbow,  when  this  image  of  true 
beauty  was  conceived  ! ” 

Charmed  back  to  his  art  by  this  unlooked-for  pr<»^is€v 


ZAATOAT/ 


127 


Glyndon  replied,  modestly,  “ I thought  well  of  my  design  till 
this  morning,^  and  then  I was  disenchanted  of  my  happy 
persuasion.” 

Say,  rather,  that,  unaccustomed  to  continuous  labor,  you 
were  fatigued  with  your  employment.” 

“ That  is  true.  Shall  I confess  it  ? I began  to  miss  the 
world  without.  It  seemed  to  me  as  if,  while  I lavished  my 
neart  and  my  youth  upon  visions  of  beauty,  I was  losing  the 
beautiful  realities  of  actual  life.  And  I envied  the  merry 
fisherman,  singing  as  he  passed  below  my  casement,  and  the 
lover  conversing  with  his  mistress.” 

“ And,”  said  Zanoni,  with  an  encouraging  smile,  ‘‘  do  you 
blame  yourself  for  the  natural  and  necessary  return  to  earth, 
in  which  even  the  most  habitual  visitor  of  the  Heavens  of 
Invention  seeks  his  relaxation  and  repose  ? Man's  genius  is 
a bird  that  cannot  be  always  on  the  wing ; when  the  craving 
for  the  actual  world  is  felt,  it  is  a hunger  that  must  be 
appeased.  They  who  command  best  the  ideal,  enjoy  ever 
most  the  real.  See  the  true  artist,  when  abroad  in  men’s 
thoroughfares,  ever  observant,  ever  diving  into  the  heart,  ever 
alive  to  the  least  as  to  the  greatest  of  the  complicated  truths 
of  existence ; descending  to  what  pedants  would  call  the 
trivial  and  the  frivolous.  From  every  mesh  in  the  social 
web,  he  can  disentangle  a grace.  And  for  him  each  airy 
gossamer  floats  in  the  gold  of  the  sunlight.  Know  you  not 
that  around  the  animalcule  that  sports  in  the  water  there 
shines  a halo,  as  around  the  star  *that  revolves  in  bright 
pastime  through  the  space } True  art  finds  beauty  every- 
where. In  the  street,  in  the  market-place,  in  the  hovel,,  it 
gathers  food  for  the  hive  of  its  thoughts.  In  the  mire  of 
politics,  Dante  and  Milton  selected  pearls  for  the  wreath  of 
song.  Whoever  told  you  that  Raffaele  did  not  enjoy  the  life 
without,  carrying  everywhere  with  him  the  one  inward  idea  of 
beauty  which  attracted  and  embedded  in  its  own  amber  every 
straw  that  the  feet  of  the  dull  man  trampled  into  mud  ? As 
some  lord  of  the  forest  wanders  abroad  for  its  prey,  and 
scents  and  follows  it  over  plain  and  hill,  through  break  and 
jungle,  but,  seizing  it  at  last,  bears  the  quarry  to  its  unwit^ 
nessed  cave — so  Genius  searches  through  wood  and  waste, 
untiringly  and  eagerly,  every  sense  awake,  every  nerve 
strained  to  speed  and  strength,  for  the  scattered  and  flying 
images  of  matter,  that  it  seizes  at  last  with  its  mighty  talons, 

* The  monas  mica,  found  in  the  purest  pools  is  encompassed  with  a halo.  And 
this  is  frequent  amongst  many  other  species  of  animalculso. 


128 


ZANom. 


and  bears  away  with  it  into  solitudes  no  footsteps  can  invade. 
Go,  seek  the  world  without ; it  is  for  art,  the  inexhaustible 
pasture-ground  and  harvest  to  the  world  within  ! ” 

“ You  comfort  me,”  said  Glyndon,  brightening.  “ I had 
imagined  my  weariness  a proof  of  my  deficiency ! But  not 
now  would  I speak  to  you  of  these  labors.  Pardon  me  if  I 
pass  from  the  toil  to  the  reward.  You  have  uttered  dim 
prophecies  of  my  future,  if  I wed  one  who,  in  the  judgment 
of  the  sober  w^orld,  would  only  darken  its  prospects  and 
obstruct  its  ambition.  Do  you  speak  from  the  wisdom  which 
is  experience,  or  that  which  aspires  to  prediction  } ” 

“Are  they  not  allied  ? Is  not  he  best  accustomed  to 
calculation  who  can  solve  at  a glance  any  new  problem  in  the 
arithmetic  of  chances  ? ” 

“ You  evade  my  question.” 

“ No  ; but  I will  adapt  my  answer  the  better  to  your 
comprehension,  for  it  is  upon  this  very  point  that  I have 
sought  you.  Listen  to  me  ! ” Zanoni  fixed  his  eyes  earnestly 
on  his  listener,  and  continued  : “ For  the  accomplishment 
of  whatever  is  great  and  lofty,  the  clear  preception  of  truths  is 
the  first  requisite — truths  adapted  to  the  object  desired.  The 
warrior  thus  reduces  the  chances  of  battle  to  combinations 
almost  of  mathematics.  He  can  predict  a result,  if  he  can 
but  depend  upon  the  materials  he  is  forced  to  employ.  At 
such  a loss  he  can  cross  that  bridge ; in  such  a time  he  can 
reduce  that  fort.  Still  more  accurately,  for  he  depends  less 
on  material  causes  than  ideas  at  his  command,  can  the 
commander  of  the  purer  science  or  diviner  art,  if  he  once 
perceives  the  truths  that  are  in  him  and  around,  foretell 
what  he  can  achieve,  and  in  what  he  is  condemned  to  fail. 
But  this  perception  of  truths  is  disturbed  by  many  causes— 
vanity,  passion,  fear,  indolence  in  himself,  ignorance  of  the 
' fitting  means  without  to  accomplish  what  he  designs.  He 
may  miscalculate  his  own  forces ; he  may  have  no  chart  of 
the  country  he  would  invade.  It  is  only  in  a peculiar  state 
of  the  mind  that  it  is  capable  of  perceiving  truth ; and  that 
state  is  profound  serenity.  Your  mind  is  fevered  by  a desire 
for  tmth ; you  would  compel  it  to  your  embraces  ; you  would 
ask  me  to  impart  to  you,  without  ordeal  or  preparation,  the 
grandest  secrets  that  exist  in  nature.  But  truth  can  be  no  more 
seen  by  the  mind  unprepared  for  it,  than  the  sun  can  dawn 
upon  the  midst  of  night.  Such  a mind  receives  truth  only  to 
pollute  it : to  use  the  simile  of  one  who  has  wandered  near 
the  secret  of  the  sublime  Goetia  (or  the  magic  that  lies  within 


ZANONI. 


129 


nature,  as  electricity  within  the  cloud),  ‘ He  who  pours  water 
into  the  muddy  well,  does  but  disturb  the  mud.  ’ ” * 

“ What  do  you  tend  to  ” 

“This  ; that  you  have  faculties  that  may  attain  to  surpass- 
ing power ; that  may  rank  you  among  those  enchanters,  who, 
greater  than  the  magian,  leave  behind  them  an  enduring 
influence,  worshipped  wherever  beauty  is  comprehended, 
wherever  the  soul  is  sensible  of  a higher  world  than  that  in 
which  matter  struggles  for  crude  and  incomplete  existence. 

“ But  to  make  available  those  faculties,  need  I be  a prophet 
to  tell  you  that  you  must  learn  to  concentre  upon  great  objects 
all  your  desires  ? The  heart  must  rest,  that  the  mind  may  be 
active.  At  present  you  wander  from  aim  to  aim.  As  the 
ballast  to  the  ship,  so  to  the  spirit  are  Faith  and  Love. 
With  your  whole  heart,  affections,  humanity,  centred  in  one 
object,  your  mind  and  aspirations  will  become  equally  stead- 
fast and  in  earnest.  Viola  is  a child  as  yet , you  do  not  per- 
ceive the  high  nature  the  trials  of  life  will  develop.  Pardon 
me,  if  I say  that  her  soul,  purer  and  [loftier  than  your  own, 
will  bear  it  upward,  as  a sacred  hymn  carries  aloft  the  spirits 
of  the  world.  Your  nature  wants  the  harmony,  the  music 
which,  as  the  Pythagoreans  wisely  taught,  at  once  elevates 
and  soothes.  I offer  you  that  music  in  her  love.” 

“ But  am  I sure  that  she  does  love  me  ? ” 

“ Artist,  no  ; she  loves  you  not  at  present ; her  affections 
are  full  of  another.  But  if  I could  transfer  to  you,  as  the 
loadstone  transfers  its  attraction  to  the  magnet,  the  love  that 
she  has  now  for  me — if  I could  cause  her  to  see  in  you  the 

ideal  of  her  dreams ” 

“ Is  such  a gift  in  the  power  of  man  ? ” 

“ I offer  it  to  you,  if  your  love  be  lawful,  if  your  faith  in 
virtue  and  yourself  be  deep  and  loyal ; if  not,  think  you  that 
I would  disenchant  her  with  truth  to  make  her  adore  a false- 
Uood  ? ” 

“ But  if,”  persisted  Glyndon,  “ if  she  be  all  that  you  tell 
me  and  if  she  love  you,  how  can  you  rob  yourself  of  so 
priceless  a treasure  ? ” 

“ Oh,  shallow  and  mean  heart  of  man  ! ” exclaimed 
Zanoni,  with  unaccustomed  passion  and  vehemence,  “ dost 
thou  conceive  so  little  of  love  as  not  to  know  that  it  sacri- 
fices all — love  itself — for  the  happiness  of  the  thing  it  loves  ? 
Hear  me  I ” And  Zanoni’s  face  grew  pale.  “ Plear  me  ! I 
press  this  upon  you,  because  I love  her,  and  because  I fear 

* Iamb,  de  Vxt.  Pythag. 


Z.AJVUIVJ. 


that  with  me  her  fate  will  be  less  fair  than  with  yourself. 
Why — ask  not,  for  I wull  not  tell  you.  Enough  ! Time  press- 
es now  for  your  answer  : it  cannot  be  long  delayed.  Before  the 
night  of  the  third  day  from  this,  all  choice  will  be  forbid 
you ! ” 

“But,”  said  Glyndon,  still  doubting  and  suspicious,  “but 
why  this  haste  ? ” 

“ Man,  you  are  not  worthy  of  her  when  you  ask  me.  All 
I can  tell  you  here,  you  should  have  known  yourself.  This 
ravisher,  this  man  of  will,  this  son  of  the  old  Viconti,  tmliktt 
you, — steadfast,  resolute,  earnest  even  in  his  crimes, — never 
relinquishes  an  object.  But  one  passion  controls  his  lust — 
is  his  avarice.  The  day  after  his  attempt  on  Viola,  his  uncle, 

the  Cardinal , from  whom  he  has  large  expectations  of 

land  and  gold,  sent  for  him,  on  pain  of  forfeiting  all  the 
possessions  which  his  schemes  already  had  parcelled  out,  to 
pursue  with  dishonorable  designs  one  whom  the  Cardinal  had 
heeded  and  loved  from  childhood.  This  is  the  cause  of  his 
present  pause  from  his  pursuit.  While  we  speak,  the  cause 
expires.  Before  the  hand  of  the  clock  reaches  the  hour  of 

noon,  the  Cardinal ^will  be  no  more.  At  this  very  moment 

thy  friend,  Jean  Nicot,  is  with  the  Prince  di .” 

“ He  ! wherefore  ? ” 

“ To  ask  what  dower  shall  go  with  Viola  Pisani,  the  morn- 
ing that  she  leaves  the  palace  of  the  Prince.” 

“ And  how  do  you  know  all  this  ? ” 

“ Fool ! I tell  the  again,  because  a lover  is  a watcher  by 
night  and  day ; because  love  never  sleeps  when  danger  mena- 
ces the  beloved  one  ! ” 

“ And  you  it  was  that  informer?  the  Cardinal -?  ” 

“Yes;  and  what  has  been  my  task  might  as  easily  have 
been  thine.  Speak — thine  answer ! ” 

“You  shall  have  it  on  the  third  day  from  this.” 

“ Be  it  so.  Put  off,  poor  waverer,  thy  happiness  to  the  last 
hour.  On  the  third  day  from  this,  I will  ask  thee  thy  resolve.” 
“ And  where  shall  w^e  meet  ? ” 

“ Before  midnight,  where  you  may  least  expect  me.  You 
cannot  shun  me,  though  you  may  seek  to  do  so  ! ” 

“ Stay  one  moment ! You  condemn  me  as  doubtful,  irreso- 
lute, suspicious.  Have  I no  cause  ? Can  I yield  without  a 
struggle  to  the  strange  fascination  you  exert  upon  my  mind  ? 
What  interest  can  you  have  in  me,  a stranger,  that  you  should 
thus  dictate  to  me  the  gravest  action  in  the  life  of  man  ? Do 
you  suppose  that  any  one  in  his  senses  would  not  pause,  and 


ZANOm. 


*31 


deliberate,  ask  himself,  ‘ Why  should  this  stranger  care  thus 
for  me  ? ’ ” 

“ And  yet,”  said  Zanoni,  “ if  I told  thee  that  I could  ini- 
tiate thee  into  the  secrets  of  that  magic  which  the  philosophy 
of  the  whole  existing  world  treats  as  a chimera,  or  imposture, 
— if  I promise  to  show  thee  how  to  command  the  beings  of 
air  and  ocean,  how  to  accumulate  wealth  more  easily  than  a 
child  can  gather  pebbles  on  the  shore,  to  place  in  thy  hands 
the  essence  of  the  herbs  which  prolong  life  from  age  to  age, 
the  mystery  of  that  attraction  by  which  to  awe  all  danger, 
and  disarm  all  violence,  and  subdue  man  as  the  serpent 
charms  the  bird ; if  I told  thee  that  all  these  it  was  mine  to 
possess  and  to  communicate,  thou  wouldst  listen  to  me  then, 
and  obey  me  without  a doubt  ! ” 

“ It  is  true ; and  I can  account  for  this  only  by  the  im- 
perfect associations  of  my  childhood — by  traditions  in  our 
house  of ” 

“ Your  forefather,  who  in  the  revival  of  science,  sought  the 
secrets  of  Apollonius  and  Paracelsus.” 

“ What ! ” said  Glyndon,  amazed,  “ are  you  so  well 
acquainted  with  the  annals  of  an  obscure  lineage  ? ” 

“To  the  man  who  aspires  to  know,  no  man  who  has  been 
the  meanest  student  of  knowledge  should  be  unknown.  You 
ask  me  why  I have  shown  this  interest  in  your  fate  ? There 
is  one  reason  which  I have  not  yet  told  you.  There  is  a Fra- 
ternity as  to  whose  laws  and  whose  mysteries  the  most  inquisi- 
tive schoolmen  are  in  the  dark.  By  those  laws,  all  are  pledged 
to  warn,  to  aid,  and  to  guide  even  the  remotest  descendants 
of  men  who  have  toiled,  though  vainly,  like  your  ancestor, 
in  the  mysteries  of  the  Order.  We  are  bound  to  advise  them 
to  their  welfare  ; nay,  more,  — if  they  command  us  to  it,  we 
must  accept  them  as  our  pupils.  I am  a survivor  of  that 
most  ancient  and  immemorial  union.  This  it  was  that  bound  me 
to  thee  at  the  first ; this,  perhaps,  attracted  thyself  uncon- 
sciously, Son  of  our  Brotherhood,  to  me.” 

“ If  this  be  so,  I command  thee,  in  the  name  of  the  laws 
thou  obeyest,  to  receive  me  as  thy  pupil ! ” 

“ What  do  you  ask  ? ” said  Zanoni,  passionately.  “Leain 
first  the  conditions.  No  Neophyte  must  have,  at  his  initia- 
tion, one  affection  or  desire  that  chains  him  to  the  world. 
He  must  be  pure  from  the  love  of  woman,  free  from  avarice 
and  ambition,  free  from  the  dreams  even  of  art,  or  the  hope 
of  earthly  fame.  The  first  sacrifice  thou  must  make  is — 
Viola  herself.  And  for  what  ? For  an  ordeal  that  the  most 


132 


ZANONI, 


daring  courage  only  can  encounter,  the  most  ethereal  natures 
alone  survive  ! Thou  art  unfit  for  the  science  that  has  made 
me  and  others  what  we  are  or  have  been ; for  thy  whole 
nature  is  one  fear  ! ” 

“Fear!”  cried  Glyndon,  coloring  with  resentment,  and 
rising  to  the  full  height  of  his  stature. 

“ Fear ! and  the  worst  fear — fear  of  the  world’s  opinion  ; 
fear  of  the  Nicots  and  the  Mervales ; fear  of  thine  own 
impulses  when  most  generous ; fear  of  thine  own  powers 
when  thy  genius  is  most  bold  ; fear  that  God  does  not  live  in 
heaven  to  keep  watch  on  earth  : fear,  the  fear  of  little  men  ; 
and  that  fear  is  never  known  to  the  great.” 

With  these  words  Zanoni  abruptly  left  the  artist — humbled, 
bewildered,  and  not  convinced.  He  remained  alone  with  his 
thoughts,  till  he  was  aroused  by  the  striking  of  the  clock ; he 
then  suddenly  remembered  Zanoni’s  prediction  of  the  Cardh 
nal’s  death  ; and,  seized  with  an  intense  desire  to  learn  the 
truth,  he  hurried  into  the  streets, — he  gained  the  Cardinal’s 
palace.  Five  minutes  before  noon  his  Eminence  had  expired, 
after  an  illness  of  less  than  an  hour.  Zanoni’s  visit  had  occu- 
pied more  time  than  the  illness  of  the  Cardinal.  Awed  and 
perplexed,  he  turned  from  the  palace,  and  as  he  walked 
through  the  Chiaja,  he  saw  Jean  Nicot  emerge  from  the 
portals  of  the  Prince. 


CHAPTER  V. 

Two  loves  I have  of  comfort  and  despair, 

Which  like  two  spirits  do  suggest  me  still. 

Shakspeare. 

Venerable  Brotherhood,  so  sacred  and  so  little  known, 
from  whose  secret  and  precious  archives  the  materials  for 
this  history  have  been  drawn  ; ye  who  have  retained,  from 
century  to  century,  all  that  time  has  spared  of  the  august  and 
venerable  science, — thanks  to  you,  if  now,  for  the  first  tim^, 
some  record  of  the  thoughts  and  actions  of  no  false  and  self- 
styled  luminary  of  your  Order  be  given,  however  imperfectly 
to  the  world.  Many  have  called  themselves  of  your  band  , 
many  spurious  pretenders  have  been  so  called  by  the  learned 
ignorance  which  still,  baffled  and  perplexed,  is  driven  to  con- 
fess that  it  knows  nothing  of  your  origin,  your  ceremonies  or 
doctrines,  nor  even  if  you  still  have  local  habitation  on  the 


ZANONL 


133 


earth.  Thanks  to  you  if  I,  the  only  one  of  my  country,  in 
this  age,  admitted,  with  a profane  footstep,  into  your  myste- 
rious Academe,  * have  been  by  you  empowered  and  instructed 
to  adapt  to  the  comprehension  of  the  uninitiated,  some  few  of 
the  starry  truths  which  shone  on  the  great  Shemaia  of  the 
Chaldean  Lore,  and  gleamed  dimly  through  the  darkened 
knowledge  of  later  disciples,  laboring,  like  Psellus  and 
lamblichus,  to  revive  the  embers  of  the  fire  which  burned  in 
the  Hamarin  of  the  East.  Though  not  to  us  of  an  aged  and 
hoary  world  is  vouchsafed  the  name  which,  so  say  the  earliest 
oracles  of  the  earth,  “ rushes  into  the  infinite  worlds,”  yet  is 
it  ours  to  trace  the  reviving  truths,  through  each  new  disco v« 
ery  of  the  philosopher  and  chemist.  The  laws  of  Attraction, 
of  Electricity,  and  of  the  yet  more  mysterious  agency  of  that 
Great  Principle  of  Life,  which,  if  drawn  from  the  Universe, 
would  leave  the  Universe  a grave,  were  but  the  code  in  which 
the  Theurgy  of  old  sought  the  guides  that  led  it  to  a legisla- 
tion and  science  of  its  own.  To  rebuild  on  words  the  frag- 
ments of  this  history,  it  seems  to  me  as  if,  in  a solemn  trance 
I M^as  led  through  the  ruins  of  a city  whose  only  remains 
were  tombs.  From  the  sarcophagus  and  the  urn  I awake 
the  Genius  t of  the  extinguished  Torch,  and  so  closely  does 
its  shape  resemble  Eros,  that  at  moments  1 scarcely  know 
which  of  ye  dictates  to  me — O Love,  O death ! 

And  it  stirred  in  the  virgin’s  heart — this  new,  unfathomable, 
and  divine  emotion ! Was  it  only  the  ordinary  affection  of 
the  pulse  and  the  fancy,  of  the  eye  to  the  Beautiful,  of  the  ear 
to  the  Eloquent,  or  did  it  not  justify  the  notion  she  herself 
conceived  of  it — that  it  was  born  not  of  the  senses,  that  it  was 
less  of  earthly  and  human  love  than  the  effect  of  some  won- 
drous, but  not  unholy  charm  ? I said  that,  from  that  day,  in 
which,  no  longer  with  awe  and  trembling,  she  surrendered  her- 
self, to  the  influence  of  Zanoni,  she  had  sought  to  put  her 
thoughts  into  words.  Let  the  thoughts  attest  their  own  nature. 

THE  SELF-CONFESSIONAL. 

“ Is  it  the  daylight  that  shines  on  me,  or  the  memory  of  thy 
presence  ? Wherever  I look,  the  world  seems  full  of  thee  ; 
in  every  ray  that  trembles  on  the  water,  that  smiles  upon  the 
leaves,  I behold  but  a likeness  to  thine  eyes.  What  is  this 

* The  reader  will  have  the  goodness  to  remember  that  this  is  said  by  the  authof 
of  the  original  MS.,  not  by  the  editor. 

t The  Greek  Genius  of  Death.  - 


134 


2Amm. 


change,  that  alters  not  only  myself,  but  the  face  of  the  whole 
universe  ? 

****** 

How  instantaneously  leapt  into  life  the  power  with  which  thou 
swayest  my  heart  in  its  ebb  and  flow.  Thousands  were 
around  me,  and  I saw  but  thee.  That  was  the  night  in  which 
I first  entered  upon  the  world  which  crowds  life  into  a Drama, 
and  has  no  language  but  music.  How  strangely  and  how 
suddenly  with  thee  became  that  world  evermore  connected  ! 
What  the  delusion  of  the  stage  was  to  others,  thy  presence 
was  to  me.  My  life,  too,  seemed  to  centre  into  those  short 
hours,  and  from  thy  lips  I heard  a music,  mute  to  all  ears  but 
mine.  I sit  in  the  room  where  my  father  dwelt.  Here,  on 
that  happy  night,  forgetting  why  they  were  so  happy,  I shrunk 
into  the  shadow,  and  sought  to  guess  what  thou  wert  to  me ; 
and  my  mother’s  low  voice  woke  me,  and  I crept  to  my  father’s 
side — close, — close,  from  fear  of  my  own  thoughts. 

“ Ah  ! sweet  and  sad  was  the  morrow  to  that  night,  when 
thy  lips  warned  me  of  the  Future.  An  orphan  now — ^what  is 
there  that  lives  for  me  to  think  of,  to  dream  upon,  to  revere, 
but  thou ! 

“ How  tenderly  thou  hast  rebuked  me  for  the  grievous 
wrong  that  my  thoughts  did  thee  ! Why  should  I have  shud- 
dered to  feel  thee  glancing  upon  my  thoughts  like  the  beam 
on  the  solitary  tree,  to  which  thou  didst  once  liken  me  so 
well  ? It  was — it  was,  that,  like  the  tree,  I struggled  for  the 
light,  and  the  light  came.  They  tell  me  of  love,  and  my 
very  life  of  the  stage  breathes  the  language  of  love  into  my 
lips.  No  ; again  and  again,  I know  that  is  not  the  love  that 
I feel  for  thee  ! it  is  not  a passion,  it  is  a thought ! I ask 
not  to  be  loved  again.  I murmur  not  that  thy  words  are 
stern  and  thy  looks  are  cold.  I ask  not  if  I have  rivals ; I 
sigh  not  to  be  fair  in  thine  eyes.  It  is  my  spirit  that  would 
blend  itself  with  thine.  I would  give  worlds,  though  we  were 
apart,  though  oceans  rolled  between  us,  to  know  the  hour 
in  which  thy  gaze  was  lifted  to  the  stars — in  which  thy  heart 
poured  itself  in  prayer.  They  tell  me  thou  art  more  beauti- 
ful than  the  marble  images,  that  are  fairer  than  all  human 
forms;  but  I have  never  dared  to  gaze  steadfastly  on  thy 
face,  that  memory  might  compare  thee  with  the  rest.  Only 
thine  eyes,  and  thy  soft  calm  smile  haunt  me ; as  when  I 
look  upon  the  moon,  and  all  that  passes  into  my  heart  is  hei 
silent  light. 

***«*## 


zANom. 


13s 


“ Often,  when  the  air  is  calm,  I have  thought  that  I hear 
the  strains  of  my  father’s  music ; often,  though  long  stilled  in 
the  grave,  have  they  waked  me  from  the  dreams  of  the 
solemn  night.  Methinks,  ere  thou  comest  to  me,  that  I hear 
them  herald  thy  approach.  Methinks  I hear  them  wail  and 
moan,  when  I sink  back  into  myself  on  seeing  thee  depart. 
Thou  art  of  that  music— its  spirit,  its  genius.  My  father 
must  have  guessed  at  thee  and  thy  native  regions,  when  the 
winds  hushed  to  listen  to  his  tones,  and  the  world  deemed 
him  mad  ! I hear,  where  I sit,  the  far  murmur  of  the  sea. 
Murmur  on,  ye  blessed  waters  ! The  waves  are  the  pulses  of 
the  shores.  They  beat  with  the  gladness  of  the  morning 
wind — so  beats  my  heart  in  the  freshness  and  light  that  make 
up  the  thoughts  of  thee  ! 

* * * # # # * 

“ Often  in  my  childhood  I have  mused  and  asked  for  what 
I was  born ; and  my  soul  answered  my  heart  and  said— 
Thou  wert  born  to  worship P Yes;-  I know  why  the  real 
world  has  ever  seemed  to  me  so  false  and  cold.  I know  why 
the  world  of  the  stage  charmed  and  dazzled  me.  I know  why 
it  was  so  sweet  to  sit  apart  and  gaze  my  whole  being  into  the 
distant  heavens.  My  nature  is  not  formed  for  this  life,  happy 
though  that  life  seem  to  others.  It  is  its  very  want  to  have 
ever  before  it  some  image  loftier  than  itself ! Stranger,  in 
what  realm  above,  when  the  grave  is  past,  shall  my  soul, 
hour  after  hour,  worship  at  the  same  source  as  thine  ? 

******* 

“ In  the  gardens  of  my  neighbor  there  is  a small  fountain. 
I stood  by  it  this  morning  after  sunrise.  How  it  sprung  up, 
with  its  eager  spray,  to  the  sunbeams  ! And  then  I thought 
that  I should  see  thee  again  this  day,  and  so  sprung  my 
heart  to  the  new  morning  which  thou  bringest  me  from  the 
skies. 

*****  * * 

“ I have  seen,  I have  listened  to  thee  again.  How  bold  I 
have  become ! I ran  on  with  my  childlike  thoughts  and 
stories,  my  recollections  of  the  past,  as  if  I had  known  thee 
from  an  infant.  Suddenly  the  idea  of  my  presumption 
struck  me.  I stopped,  and  timidly  sought  thine  eyes. 

“ ‘ Well,  and  when  you  found  that  the  nightingale  refused 
to  sing  ? ’ — 

“ ‘ Ah ! ’ I said,  ‘ what  to  thee  this  history  of  the  heart  of  a 
child?’ 


136 


ZANONI. 


“ ‘ Viola,’  didst  thou  answer,  with  that  voice,  so  inexpress 
ibiy  calm  and  earnest ! ‘ Viola,  the  darkness  of  a child’s 

heart  is  often  but  the  shadow  of  a star.  Speak  on  ! And  thy 
nightingale,  when  they  caught  and  caged  it,  refused  to  sing  ? ’ 

“ ‘ And  I placed  the  cage  yonder,  amidst  the  vine-leaves,  and 
took  up  my  lute,  and  spoke  to  it  on  the  strings  ; for  I thought 
that  all  music  was  its  native  language,  and  it  would  understand 
that  I sought  to  comfort  it.’ 

“ ‘Yes,’  saidst  thou.  ‘ And  at  last  it  answered  thee,  but 
not  with  song — in  a sharp,  brief  cry  ; so  mournful,  that  thy 
hands  let  fall  the  lute,  and  the  tears  gushed  from  thine  eyes. 
So  softly  didst  thou  unbar  the  cage,  and  the  nightingale 
flew  into  yonder  thicket ; and  thou  heardst  the  foilage  rustle, 
and  looking  through  the  moonlight,  thine  eyes  saw  that  it  had 
found  its  mate.  It  sang  to  thee  then  from  the  boughs  a 
long,  loud,  joyous  jubilee.  And  musing,  thou  didst  feel  that 
it  was  not  the  vine-leaves  or  the  moonlight  that  made  the  bird 
give  melody  to-night ; and  that  the  secret  of  its  music  was  the 
presence  of  a thing  beloved.’ 

“ How  didst  thou  know  my  thoughts  in  that  child-like  time 
better  than  I knew  myself  ? How  is  the  humble  life  of  my 
past  years,  with  its  mean  ^events,  so  mysteriously  familiar  to 
thee,  bright  stranger  ? I wonder — but  I do  not  again  dare  to 
fear  thee ! 

******* 

“ Once  the  thought  of  him  oppressed  and  weighed  me 
down.  As  an  infant  that  longs  for  the  moon,  my  being  was 
one  vague  desire  for  something  never  to  be  attained.  Now  I 
feel  rather  as  if  to  think  of  thee  sufflced  to  remove  every  fetter 
from  my  spirit.  I float  in  the  still  seas  of  light,  and  nothing 
seems  too  high  for  my  wings,  too  glorious  for  my  eyes.  It 
was  mine  ignorance  that  made  me  fear  thee.  A knowledge 
that  is  not  in  books  seems  to  breathe  around  thee  like  an 
atmosphere.  How  little  have  I read ! how  little  have  I 
learned  ! Yet  when  thou  art  by  my  side,  it  seems  as  if  the 
veil  were  lifted  from  all  wisdom  and  all  nature.  I startle 
when  I look  even  at  the  words  I have  written ; they  seem 
not  to  come  from  myself,  but  are  the  signs  of  another 
language  which  thou  hast  taught  my  heart,  and  which  my 
hand  traces  rapidly,  as  at  thy  dictation.  Sometimes,  while  I 
write  or  muse,  I could  fancy  that  I heard  light  wings  hovering 
around  me,  and  saw  dim  shapes  of  beauty  floating  round,  and 
vanishing  as  they  smiled  upon  me.  No  unquiet  ar-  fearful 
dream  ever  comes  to  me  now  in  sleep,  yet  sleep  an  ^waking 


ZANONL 


137 


are  alike  but  as  one  dream.  In  sleep,  I wander  with  thee,  rK)t 
through  the  paths  of  earth,  but  through  impalpable  air — an 
air  which  seems  a music — upward  and  upward,  as  the  soul 
mounts  on  the  tones  of  a lyre  ! Till  I knew  thee,  I was  as  a 
slave  to  the  earth.  Thou  hast  given  to  me  the  liberty  of  the 
universe ! Before,  it  was  life  ; it  seems  to  me  now  as  if  I 

had  commenced  eternity  ! 

*****  * 

“ Formerly,  when  I was  to  appear  upon  the  stage,  my 
heart  beat  more  loudly.  I trembled  to  encounter  the 
audience,  whose  breath  gave  shame  or  renown  ; and  now  I 
have  no  fear  of  them.  I see  them,  heed  them,  hear  them 
not ! I know  that  there  will  be  music  in  my  voice,  for  it  is  a 
hymn  that  I pour  to  thee.  Thou  never  comest  to  the 
theatre ; and  that  no  longer  grieves  me.  Thou  art  become 
too  sacred  to  appear  a part  of  the  common  world,  and  I feel 
glad  that  thou  art  not  by  when  crowds  have  a right  to  judge 
me. 

* * * * * * * 

“And  he  spoke  to  me  of  another;  to  another  he  would 
consign  me  ! No,  it  is  not  love  that  I feel  for  thee,  Zanoni, 
or  why  did  I hear  thee  without  anger  ? why  did  thy  command 
seem  to  me  not  a thing  impossible  ! As  the  strings  of  the 
instrument  obey  the  hand  of  the  master,  thy  look  modulates 
the  wildest  chords  of  my  heart  to  thy  will.  If  it  please  thee 
— yes,  let  it  be  so.  Thou  art  lord  of  my  destinies ; they 
cannot  rebel  against  thee  ! I almost  think  I could  love  him, 
whoever  it  be,  on  whom  thou  wouldst  shed  the  rays  that 
circumfuse  thyself.  Whatever  thou  hast  touched,  I love ; 
whatever  thou  speakest  of,  I love.  Thy  hand  played  with 
these  vine-leaves  ; I wear  them  in  my  bosom.  Thou  seemest 
to  me  the  source  of  all  love ; too  high  and  too  bright  to  be 
loved  thyself,  but  darting  light  into  other  objects,  on  which 
the  eye  can  gaze  less  dazzled.  No,  no  ; it  is  not  love  that  I 
feel  for  thee,  and  therefore  I do  not  blush  to  nourish  and 
confess  it.  Shame  on  me  if  I loved,  knowing  myself  so 
worthless  a thing  to  thee  ! 

“ Another  ! — my  memory  echoes  back  that  word.  Anoth* 
er ! Dost  thou  mean  that  I shall  see  thee  no  more  ? It  is 
not  sadness — it  is  not  despair  that  seizes  me.  I cannot 
weep.  It  is  an  utter  sense  of  desolation.  I am  plunged 
back  into  the  common  life ; and  I shudder  coldly  at  the 
solitude.  But  I will  obey  thee,  if  thou  wilt.  Shall  I not  see 
thee  again  beyond  the  grave  ? O how  sweet  it  were  to  die  | 


138 


ZANONL 


Why  do  I not  struggle  from  the  web  in  which  my  will  is 
thus  entangled  ? Hast  thou  a right  to  dispose  of  me  thus  ? 
Give  me  back — give  me  back — the  life  I knew  before  I gave  life 
itself  away  to  thee.  Give  me  back  the  careless  dreams  of  my 
youth — my  liberty  of  heart  as  it  sung  aloud  as  it  walked  the 
earth.  Thou  hast  disenchanted  me  of  everything  that  is  not 
of  thyself.  Where  was  the  sin,  at  least,  to  think  of  thee  ? — to, 
see  thee  ? Thy  kiss  still  glows  upon  my  hand : is  that  hand 
mine  to  bestow  ? Thy  kiss  claimed  and  hallowed  it  to 

thyself.  Stranger,  I will  7iot  obey  thee  ! 

******* 

“ Another  day — one  day  of  the  fatal  three  is  gone.  It  is 
strange  to  me  that  since  the  sleep  of  last  night,  a deep  calm 
has  settled  upon  my  breast.  I feel  so  assured  that  my  very 
being  is  become  a part  of  thee,  that  I cannot  believe  that  my 
life  can  be  separated  from  thine ; and  in  this  conviction  I re- 
pose, and  smile  even  at  thy  words  and  my  own  fears.  Thou 
art  fond  of  one  maxim,  which  thou  repeatest  in  a thousand 
forms — that  the  beauty  of  the  soul  is  faith — that  as  ideal 
loveliness  to  the  sculptor,  faith  is  to  the  heart — that  faith, 
rightly  understood,  extends  over  all  the  works  of  the  Creator, 
whom  we  can  know  but  through  belief — that  it  embraces  a 
tranquil  confidence  in  ourselves,  and  a serene  repose  as  to 
our  future — that  it  is  the  moon-light  that  sways  the  tides  of 
the  human  sea.  That  faith  I comprehend  now.  I reject  all 
doubt — all  fear.  I know  that  I have  inextricably  linked  the 
whole  that  makes  the  inner  life  to  thee : and  thou  canst  not 
tear  me  from  thee,  if  thou  wouldst ! And  this  change  from 
struggle  into  calm  came  to  me  with  sleep — a sleep  without  a 
dream ; but  when  I woke,  it  was  with  a mysterious  sense  of 
happiness — an  indistinct  memory  of  something  blessed — as  if 
thou  hadst  cast  from  afar  off  a smile  upon  my  slumber.  At 
night  I was  so  sad ; not  a blossom  that  had  not  closed  itself 
up  as  if  never  more  to  open  to  the  sun ; and  the  night  itself, 
in  the  heart  as  on  the  earth,  has  ripened  the  blossoms  into 
flowers.  The  world  is  beautiful  once  more,  but  beautiful  in 
repose — not  a breeze  stirs  thy  tree — not  a doubt  my  soul  i ’’ 


ZANONL 


139 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Tu  vegga  o per  violenzia  o per  inganno 
Patire  odisonore  o mortal  danno.* 

Orl.  Fur.,  Cant.  xlii.  I. 

It  was  a small  cabinet ; the  walls  were  covered  with  pic« 
tures,  one  of  which  was  worth  more  than  the  whole  lineage 
of  the  owner  of  the  palace.  Oh,  yes  ! Zanoni  was  right. 
The  painter  is  a magician  ; the  gold  he  at  least  wrings  from 
his  crucible  is  no  delusion.  A Venetian  noble  might  be  a 
fribble,  or  an  assassin — a scoundrel,  or  a dolt ; worthless,  or 
worse  than  worthless,  yet  he  might  have  sat  to  Titan,  and  his 
portrait  may  be  inestimable  ! — A few  inches  of  painted  can- 
vas a thousand  times  more  valuable  than  a man  with  his  veins 
and  muscles,  brain,  will,  heart,  and  intellect ! 

In  this  cabinet  sat  a man  of  about  three-and-forty  ; dark- 
eyed, sallow,  with  short,  prominent  features,  a massive  con- 
formation of  jaw,  and  thick,  sensual,  but  resolute  lips  ; this 

man  was  the  Prince  di . His  form,  above  the  middle 

height,  and  rather  inclined  to  corpulence,  was  clad  in  a loose 
dressing-robe  of  rich  brocade.  On  a table  before  him  lay  an 
old-fashioned  sword  and  hat,  a mask,  dice  and  dice-box,  a 
portfolio,  and  an  inkstand  of  silver  curiously  carved. 

“Well,  Mascari,”  said  the  Prince,  looking  up  towards  his 
parasite  who  stood  by  the  embrasure  of  the  deep-set  barrica- 
doed  window — “ well,  the  Cardinal  sleeps  with  his  fathers.  I 
required  comfort  for  the  loss  of  so  excellent  a relation  ; and 
where  a more  dulcet  voice  than  Viola  Pisani’s  ? ” 

“ Is  your  excellency  serious  } So  soon  after  the  death  of 
his  Eminence  ? ” 

“ It  will  be  the  Iqss  talked  of,  and  I the  less  suspected. 
Hast  thou  ascertained  the  name  of  the  insolent  who  baffled 
us  that  night,  and  advised  the  Cardinal  the  next  day  ? ” 

“ Not  yet.” 

“ Sapient  Mascari ! I will  inform  thee.  It  was  the  strange 
Unknown.” 

“ The  Signor  Zanoni ! Are  you  sure,  my  Prince  ? ” 

“ Mascari,  yes.  There  is  a tone  in  that  man’s  voice  that  1 

* Thou  art  about  either  through  violence  or  artifice  to  suffer  either  dishonor  o| 
jnortal  losSf 


t40 


ZANOm. 


never  can  mistake  ; so  clear,  and  so  commanding,  when  1 heai 
it  I almost  fancy  there  is  such  a thing  as  conscience.  However, 
we  must  rid  ourselves  of  an  impertinent.  Mascari,  Signoi 
Zanoni  hath  not  yet  honored  our  poor  house  with  his  presence. 
He  is  a distinguished  stranger — we  must  give  a banquet  in 
his  honor.” 

“ Ah  ! and  the  Cyprus  wine ! The  Cyprus  is  a proper  em- 
blem  of  the  grave.” 

“ But  this  anon.  I am  superstitious  : there  are  strange 
stories  of  Zanoni’s  power  and  foresight ; remember  the  death 
of  Ughelli.  No  matter  ! though  the  Fiend  were  his  ally,  he 
should  not  rob  me  of  my  prize  ; no,  nor  my  revenge.” 

“ Your  Excellency  is  infatuated  ; the  actress  has  bewitched 
you.” 

“ Mascari,”  said  the  Prince  with  a haughty  smile,  “ through 
these  veins  rolls  the  blood  of  the  old  Visconti — of  those  who 
boasted  that  no  woman  ever  escaped  their  lust,  and  no  man 
their  resentment.  The  crown  of  my  fathers  has  shrunk  into 
a gewgaw  and  a toy, — their  ambition  and  their  spirit  are  un- 
decayed ! My  honor  is  now  enlisted  in  this  pursuit — ^Viola 
must  be  mine  ! ” 

“ Another  ambuscade  ? ” said  Mascari,  inquiringly. 

“ Nay,  why  not  enter  the  house  itself  ? the  situation  is  lonely, 
and  the  door  is  not  made  of  iron.” 

“ But  what  if,  on  her  return  home,  she  tell  the  tale  of  our 
violence  ? A house  forced — a virgin  stolen  ! Reflect ; though 
the  feudal  privileges  are  not  destroyed,  even  a Visconti  is  not 
now  above  the  law.” 

“ Is  he  not,  Mascari  ? Fooj  ! in  what  age  of  the  world, 
even  if  the  Madmen  of  France  succeed  in  their  chimeras,  will 
the  iron  of  law  not  bend  itself,  like  an  osier  twig,  to  the  strong 
hand  of  power  and  gold  ? But  look  not  so  pale,  Mascari,  I 
have  foreplanned  all  things.  The  day  that  she  leaves  this 
palace,  she  will  leave  it  for  France,  with  Monsieur  Jean 
Nicot.” 

Before  Mascari  could  reply,  the  gentleman  of  the  chamber 
announced  the  Signor  Zanoni. 

The  Prince  involuntarily  laid  his  hand  upon  the  sword 
placed  on  the  table,  then  with  a smile  at  his  own  impulse,  rose, 
and  met  his  visitor  at  the  threshold,  with  all  the  profuse  and 
respectful  courtesy  of  Italian  simulation. 

This  is  an  honor  highly  prized,”  said  the  Prince.  “ I 
have  long  desired  to  clasp  the  hand  of  one  so  distinguished.’' 


ZANONI. 


141 

“ And  I give  it  in  the  spirit  with  which  you  seek  it,”  replied 
Zanoni. 

The  Neapolitan  bowed  over  the  hand  he  pressed ; but  as 
he  touched  it,  a shiver  came  over  him,  and  his  heart  stood  still. 
Zanoni  bent  on  him  his  dark,  smiling  eyes,  and  then  seated 
himself  with  a familiar  air. 

“ Thus  it  is  signed  and  sealed  ; I mean  our  friendship, 
noble  Prince.  And  now  I will  tell  you  the  object  of  my  visit. 
I find.  Excellency,  that,  unconsciously  perhaps,  we  are  rivals. 
Can  we  not  accommodate  our  pretensions  ? ” 

“ Ah  ! ” said  the  Prince,  carelessly,  “ you  then  were  the 
cavalier  who  robbed  me  of  the  reward  of  my  chase.  All 
stratagems  fair  in  love,  as  in  war.  Reconcile  our  pretensions ! 
Well,  here  is  the  dice-box  ; let  us  throw  for  her.  He  who 
casts  the  lowest  shall  resign  his  claim.” 

“Is  this  a decision  by  which  you  will  promise  to  be 
bound  ? ” 

“ Yes,  on  my  faith.” 

“ And  for  him  who  breaks  his  word  so  plighted,  what  shall 
be  the  forfeit  ? ” 

“ The  sword  lies  next  to  the  dice-box.  Signor  Zanoni.  Let 
him  who  stands  not  by  his  honor,  fall  by  the  sword.” 

“ And  you  invoke  that  sentence  if  either  of  us  fail  his  word  } 
Be  it  so  ; let  Signor  Mascari  cast  for  us.” 

“ Well  said  ! — Mascari,  the  dice  ! ” 

The  Prince  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair  ; and,  world- 
hardened  as  he  was,  could  not  suppress  the  glow  of  triumph 
and  satisfaction  that  spread  itself  over  his  features.  Mascari 
took  up  the  three  dice,  and  rattled  them  noisily  in  the  box. 
Zanoni,  leaning  his  cheek  on  his  hand,  and  bending  over  the 
table,  fixed  his  eyes  steadfastly  on  the  parasite  ; Mascari  in 
vain  struggled  to  extricate  himself  from  that  searching  gaze  : 
he  grew  pale,  and  trembled — he  put  down  the  box. 

“ I give  the  first  throw  to  your  excellency.  Signor  Mascari, 
be  pleased  to  terminate  our  suspense.” 

Again  Mascari  took  up  the  box ; again  his  hand  shook,  so 
that  the  dice  rattled  within.  He  threw  ; the  numbers  were 
sixteen. 

“ It  is  a high  throw,”  said  Zanoni,  calmly ; “ nevertheless 
Signor  Mascari,  I do  not  despond.” 

Mascari  gathered  up  the  dice,  shook  the  box,  and  rolled  the 
contents  once  more  on  the  table  : the  number  was  the  highest 
that  can  be  thrown— eighteen. 

The  Prince  darted  a glance  of  fire  at  his  minion,  who  stood 


142 


ZANOm. 


with  gaping  mouth,  staring  at  the  dice,  and  trembling  from 
head  to  foot. 

“ I have  won,  you  see,”  said  Zanoni ; “ may  we  be  friends 
still?” 

“ Signor,”  said  the  prince,  obviously  struggling  with  anger 
and  confusion,  “ the  victory  is  yours.  But  pardon  me,  you 
have  spoken  lightly  of  this  young  girl — will  anything  tempt 
you  to  yield  your  claim  ? ” 

“ Ah,  do  not  think  so  ill  of  my  gallantry ; and,”  resumed 
Zanoni, with  a stern  meaning  in  his  voice,  “ forget  not  the  for- 
feit your  own  lips  have  named.” 

The  prince  knit  his  brow,  but  constrained  the  haughty  answer 
that  was  his  first  impulse. 

“ Enough  ! ” he  said,  forcing  a smile ; “ I yield.  Let  me 
prove  that  I do  not  yield  ungraciously  : will  you  favor  me  with 
your  presence  at  a little  feast  I propose  to  give  in  honor,” — 
he  added,  with  a sardonic  mockery, — “ of  the  elevation  of  my 
kinsman,  the  late  Cardinal,  of  pious  memory,  to  the  true  seat 
of  St.  Peter?” 

“ It  is,  indeed,  a happiness  to  hear  one  command  of  yours 
I can  obey.” 

Zanoni  then  turned  the  conversation,  talked  lightly  and 
gaily,  and  soon  afterwards  departed. 

“ Villain  ! ” then  exclaimed  the  Prince,  grasping  Mascari 
by  the  collar,  “ you  betrayed  me  ! ” 

“ I assure  your  Excellency  that  the  dice  were  properly  ar- 
ranged : he  should  have  thrown  twelve ; but  he  is  the  devil, 
and  that’s  the  end  of  it.” 

“ There  is  no  time  to  be  lost,”  said  the  Prince,  quitting  his 
hold  of  his  parasite,  who  quietly  re-settled  his  cravat. 

“ My  blood  is  up — I will  win  this  girl,  if  I die  for  it ! What 
noise  is  that  ? ” 

“ It  is  but  the  sword  of  your  illustrious  ancestor  that  hag 
fallen  from  the  table.” 


ZANONl 


*43 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

n VIC  faut  appeler  aucun  ordre  si  ce  n’est  en  terns  clair  et  scrciii.* 

, Les  Clavicules  Du  Rabbi  Salomon. 

• LETTER  FROM  ZANONl  TO  MEJNOUR. 

My  art  is  already  dim  and  troubled.  I have  lost  the  tram 
quillity  which  is  power.  I cannot  influence  the  decisions  of 
those  whom  I would  most  guide  to  the  shore  ; I see  them 
wander  farther  and  deeper  into  the  infinite  ocean,  where  our 
barks  sail  evermore  to  the  horizon  that  flies  before  us  ! Amazed 
and  awed  to  find  that  I can  only  warn  where  I would  control, 
I have  looked  into  my  own  soul.  It  is  true  that  the  desires 
of  earth  chain  me  to  the  Present,  and  shut  me  from  the  sol- 
emn secrets  which  Intellect,  purified  from  all  the  dross  of  the 
clay,  alone  can  examine  and  survey.  The  stern  condition  on 
which  we  hold  our  nobler  and  diviner  gifts  darkens  our  vision 
toward  the  future  of  those  for  whom  we  know  the  human 
infirmities  of  jealousy,  or  hate,  or  love. 

Mejnour,  all  around  me  is  mist  and  haze;  I have  gone  back 
in  our  sublime  existence  ; and  from  the  bosom  of  the  imperish- 
able youth  that  blooms  only  in  the  spirit,  springs  up  the  dark 
poison-flower  of  human  love. 

This  man  is  not  worthy  of  her — I know  that  truth  ; yet  in 
his  nature  are  the  seeds  of  good  and  greatness,  if  the  tares 
and  weeds  of  worldly  vanities  and  fears  would  suffer  them  to 
grow.  If  she  were  his,  and  I had  thus  transplanted  to  another 
soil  the  passion  that  obscures  my  gaze  and  disarms  my  power, 
unseen,  unheard,  unrecognized,  I could  watch  over  his  fate, 
and  secretly  prompt  his  deeds,  and  minister  to  her  welfare 
through  his  own.  But  time  rushes  on  ! Through  the  shadows 
that  encircle  me,  I see,  gathering  round  her,  the  darkest  dan- 
gers. No  choice  but  flight — no  escape,  save  with  him  or  me. 
With  me  ! • — the  rapturous  thought — the  terrible  conviction  ! 
With  me  ! Mejnour,  canst  thou  wonder  that  I would  save  her 
from  myself  ? A moment  in  the  life  of  ages — a bubble  on  the 
shoreless  sea.  What  else  to  me  can  be  human  love  ? And  in 

* No  order  of  spirits  must  be  invoked  unless  the  weather  be  clear  an4 

gerene. 


144 


ZANONI. 


this  exquisite  nature  of  hers — more  pure,  more  spiritual,  even  in 
its  young  affections  than  ever  heretofore  the  countless  volumes 
of  the  heart,  race  after  race,  have  given  to  my  gaze — there  is  yet 
a deep-buried  feeling  that  warns  me  of  inevitable  woe.  Thou 
austere  and  remorseless  Hierophant — thou  who  hast  sought  to 
convert  to  our  brotherhood  every  spirit  that  seemed  to  thee 
most  high  and  bold — even  thou  knowest,  by  horrible  experience, 
how  vain  the  hope  to  hanish /ear  from  the  heart  of  woman.  My 
life  would  be  to  her  one  marvel.  Even  if,  on  the  other  hand, 
I sought  to  guide  her  path  through  the  realms  of  terror  to  the 
light,  think  of  the  Haunter  of  the  Threshold,  and  shudder 
with  me  at  the  awful  hazard  ! I have  endeavored  to  fill  the 
Englishman’s  ambition  with  the  true  glory  of  his  art ; but  the 
restless  spirit  of  his  ancestor  still  seems  to  whisper  in  him, 
and  to  attract  to  the  spheres  in  which  it  lost  its  own  wandering 
way.  There  is  a mystery  in  man’s  inheritance  from  his  fathers. 
Peculiarities  of  the  mind,  as  diseases  of  the  body,  rest  dormant 
for  generations,  to  revive  in  some  distant  descendant,  baffle  all 
treatment  and  elude  all  skill.  Come  to  me  from  thy  solitude 
amidst  the  wrecks  of  Rome  ! I pant  for  a living  confidant — 
for  one  who  in  the  old  time  has  himself  known  jealousy  and 
love.  I have  sought  commune  with  Adon-Ai : but  his  pres- 
ence, that  once  inspired  such  heavenly  content  with  knowledge, 
and  so  serene  a confidence  in  destiny,  now  only  troubles  and 
perplexes  me.  From  the  height  from  which  I strive  to  search 
into  the  shadows  of  things  to  come,  I see  confused  spectres  of 
menace  and  wrath.  Methinks  I behold  a ghastly  limit  to  the 
wondrous  existence  I have  held — methinks  that,  after  ages  of 
the  Ideal  Life,  I see  my  course  merge  into  the  most  stormy 
whirlpool  of  the  Real.  Where  the  stars  opened  to  me  their 
gates,  there  looms  a scaffold — thick  streams  of  blood  rise  as 
from  a shambles.  What  is  more  strange  to  me,  a creature 
here,  a very  type  of  the  false  ideal  of  common  men — body  and 
mind,  a hideous  mockery  of  the  art  that  shapes  the  Beautiful, 
and  the  desires  that  seek  the  Perfect,  ever  haunts  my  vision 
amidst  these  perturbed  and  broken  clouds  of  the  fate  to  be. 
By  that  shadowy  scaffold  it  stands  and  gibbers  at  me,  with 
lips  dropping  slime  and  gore.  Come,  O friend  of  the  far- 
time ; for  me,  at  least,  thy  wisdom  has  not  purged  away  thy 
human  affections.  According  to  the  bonds  of  our  solemn 
order,  reduced  now  to  thee  and  myself,  lone  survivors  of  so 
many  haughty  and  glorious  aspirants,  thou  art  pledged,  too, 
to  warn  the  descendant  of  those  whom  thy  counsels  sought  to 
initiate  into  the  great  secret  in  a former  age.  The  last  of  that 


ZANOm. 


U5 


bold  Visconti,  who  was  once  thy  pupil,  is  the  relentless  per- 
secutor of  this  fair  child.  With  thoughts  of  lust  and  murder, 
he  is  digging  his  own  grave  ; thou  mayest  yet  daunt  him  from 
his  doom.  And  I also,  mysteriously,  by  the  same  bond,  am 
pledged  to  obey,  if  he  so  command,  a less  guilty  descendant 
of  a baffled  but  nobler  student.  If  he  reject  my  counsel,  and 
insist  upon  the  pledge,  Mejnour,  thou  wilt  have  another  Neo- 
phyte. Beware  of  another  victim  ! Come  to  me  ! This  will 
reach  thee  with  all  speed.  Answer  it  by  the  pressure  of  one 
hand  that  I can  dare  to  clasp  ! 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Ill  lupo 

Ferito,  credo,  mi  conobbe  e ’ncqntro 
Mi  venne  con  la  bocca  sanguinosa.* 

Aminta,  At.  iv.  Sc.  i. 

At  Naples,  the  tomb  of  Virgil,  beetling  over  the  cave  of 
Posilipo,  is  reverenced,  not  with  the  feelings  that  should  hal- 
low the  memory  of  the  poet,  but  the  awe  that  wraps  the  mem- 
ory of  the  magician.  To  his  charms  they  ascribe  the  hollow- 
ing of  that  mountain  passage  ; and  tradition  yet  guards  his 
tomb  by  the  spirits  he  had  raised  to  construct  the  cavern. 
This  spot,  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  Viola’s  home,  had 
often  attracted  her  solitary  footsteps.  She  had  loved  the  dim 
and  solemn  fancies  that  beset  her  as  she  looked  into  the  length- 
ened gloom  of  the  grotto,  or,  ascending  the  tomb,  gazed  from 
the  rock  on  the  dwarfed  figures  of  the  busy  crowd  that  seemed 
to  creep  like  insects  along  the  windings  of  the  soil  below  ; 
and  now,  at  noon,  she  bent  thither  her  thoughtful  way.  She 
threaded  the  narrow  path,  she  passed  the  gloomy  vineyard 
that  clambers  up  the  rock,  and  gained  the  lofty  spot,  green 
with  moss  and  luxuriant  foliage,  where  the  dust  of  him  who 
yet  soothes  and  elevates  the  minds  of  men  is  believed  to  rest. 
From  afar  rose  the  huge  fortress  of  St.  Elmo,  frowning  darkly 
amidst  spires  and  domes  that  glittered  in  the  sun.  Lulled  in 
its  azure  splendor  lay  the  Siren’s  sea  ; and  the  grey  smoke  of 
Vesuvius,  in  the  clear  distance,  soared  like  a moving  pillai 
into  the  lucid  sky.  Motionless  on  the  brink  of  the  precipice, 
Viola  looked  upon  the  lovely  and  living  world  that  stretched 

♦ The  wounded  wolf,  I think,  knew  me,  and  came  to  meet  me  with  its  bloodj 
mouth. 

lO 


146 


ZANOm 


below  ; and  the  sullen  vapor  of  Vesuvius  fascinated  her  eye 
yet  more  than  the  scattered  gardens,  or  the  gleaming  Caprea, 
smiling  amid  the  smiles  of  the  sea.  She  heard  not  a step 
that  had  followed  her  on  her  path,  and  started  to  hear  a voice 
at  hand.  So  sudden  was  the  apparition  of  the  form  that  stood 
by  her  side,  emerging  from  the  bushes  that  clad  the  crags, 
and  so  singular  did  it  harmonize  in  its  uncouth  ugliness  with 
the  wild  nature  of  the  scene  immediately  around  her,  and  the 
wizard  traditions  of  the  place,  that  the  color  left  her  cheek, 
and  a faint  cry  broke  from  her  lips. 

“ Tush,  pretty  trembler ! — do  not  be  frightened  at  my 
face,’’  said  the  man,  with  a bitter  smile.  “ After  three 
months’  marriage,  there  is  no  difference  between  ugliness  and 
beauty.  Custom  is  a great  leveler.  I was  coming  to  your 
house  when  I saw  you  leave  it ; so,  as  I have  matters  of 
importance  to  communicate,  I ventured  to  follow  your  foot- 
steps. My  name  is  Jean  Nicot,  a name  already  favorably 
known  as  a French  artist.  The  art  of  painting  and  the  art 
of  music  are  nearly  connected,  and  the  stage  is  an  altar  that 
unites  the  two.” 

There  was  something  frank  and  unembarrassed  in  the 
man’s  address  that  served  to  dispel  the  fear  his  appearance 
had  occasioned.  He  seated  himself,  as  he  spoke,  on  a crag 
beside  her,  and,  looking  up  steadily  into  her  face,  continued : 

“ You  are  very  beautiful,  Viola  Pisani,  and  I am  not  sur- 
prised at  the  number  of  your  admirers.  If  I presume  to 
place  myself  in  the  list,  it  is  because  I am  the  only  one  who 
loves  thee  honestly  and  wooes  thee  fairly.  Nay,  look  not  so 

indignant ! Listen  to  me.  Has  the  Prince  di ever  spoken 

to  thee  of  marriage  ? — or  the  beautiful  impostor  Zanoni  ? — 
or  the  blue-eyed  Englishman,  Clarence  Glyndon  ? It  is  mar- 
riage,— it  is  a home, — it  is  safety, — ^it  is  reputation,  that  I of- 
fer to  thee.  And  these  last,  when  the  straight  form  grows 
crooked,  and  the  bright  eyes  dim.  What  say  you  ? ” and  he 
attempted  to  seize  her  hand. 

Viola  shrunk,  from  him,  and  silently  turned  to  depart.  He 
rose  abruptly,  and  placed  himself  on  her  path. 

“ Actress,  you-^must  hear  me ! Do  you  know  what  this 
calling  of  the  stage  is  in  the  eyes  of  prejudice — that  is,  of 
the  common  opinion  of  mankind  ? It  is  to  be  a Princess 
before  the  lamps,  and  a Pariah  before  the  day.  No  man 
believes  in  your  virtue,  no  man  credits  your  vows  ; you  are 
the  puppet  that  they  consent  to  trick  out  with  tinsel  for  their 
amusement,  not  an  idol  for  their  worship.  Are  you  so 


ZANOm. 


H7 


enamoured  of  tAis  career,  that  you  scorn  even  to  think  of 
security  and  honor  ? Perhaps  you  are  different  from  what 
you  seem.  Perhaps  you  laugh  at  the  prejudice  that  would 
degrade  you,  and  would  wisely  turn  it  to  advantage.  Speak 
frankly  to  me  ; I have  no  prejudice  either.  Sweet  one,  I am 

sure  we  should  agree.  Now,  this  Prince  di , I have  a 

message  from  him.  Shall  I deliver  it  ? ” 

Never  had  Viola  felt  as  she  felt  then ; never  had  she  so 
thoroughly  seen  all  the  perils  of  her  forlorn  condition  and  her 
fearful  renown.  Nicot  continued 

“ Zanoni  would  but  amuse  himself  with  thy  vanity  ; Glyn- 
don  would  despise  himself,  if  he  offered  thee  his  name — and 

thee,  if  thou  wouldst  accept  it ; but  the  Prince  di is  in 

earnest,  and  he  is  wealthy.  Listen  ! ” 

And  Nicot  approached  his  lips  to  her,  and  hissed  a sen- 
tence which  she  did  not  suffer  him  to  complete.  She  darted 
from  him  with  one  glance  of  unutterable  disdain.  As  he 
strove  to  regain  his  hold  of  her  arm,  he  lost  his  footing,  and 
fell  down  the  sides  of  the  rock,  till,  bruised  and  lacerated,  a 
pine-branch  saved  him  from  the  yawning  abyss  below.  She 
heard  his  exclamation  of  rage  and  pain,  as  she  bounded 
down  the  path,  and  without  once  turning  to  look  behind, 
regained  her  home.  By  the  porch  stood  Glyndon,  conversing 
with  Gionetta.  She  passed  him  abruptly,  entered  the  house, 
and,  sinking  on  the  floor,  wept  loud  and  passionately. 

Glyndon,  who  had  followed  her  in  surprise,  vainly  sought'to 
soothe  and  calm  her.  She  would  not  reply  to  his  questions  ; 
she  did  not  seem  to  listen  to  his  protestations  of  love,  till 
suddenly,  as  Nicot’s  terrible  picture  of  the  world’s  judgment 
of  that  profession,  which  to  her  younger  thoughts  had  seemed 
the  service  of  Song  and  the  Beautiful,  forced  itself  upon  her, 
she  raised  her  face  from  her  hands,  and  looking  steadily  upon 
the  Englishman,  said,  “ False  one,  dost  thou  talk  to  me  of 
love  ? ” 

“ By  my  honor,  words  fail  to  tell  thee  how  I love  ! ” 

‘‘  Wilt  thou  give  me  thy  home  ? — thy  name  } Dost  thou 
woo  me  as  thy  wife  ? ” And  at  that  moment,  had  Glyndon 
answered  as  his  better  angel  would  have  counseled,  perhaps, 
in  that  revolution  of  her  whole  mind,  which  the  words  of 
Nicot  had  effected,  which  made  her  despise  her  very  self, 
sicken  of  her  lofty  dreams,  despair  of  the  future,  and  dis- 
trust her  whole  ideal, — perhaps,  I say,  in  restoring  her  self- 
esteem, he  would  have  won  her  confidence,  and  ultimately 
secured  her  love.  But,  against  the  prompting  of  his  nobler 


148 


ZANONL 


nature,  rose  up  at  that  sudden  question  all  those  doubts  which, 
as  Zanoni  had  so  well  implied,  made  the  true  enemies  of  his 
soul.  Was  he  thus  suddenly  to  be  entangled  into  a snare 
laid  for  his  credulity  by  deceivers  ? Was  she  not  instructed 
to  seize  the  moment  to  force  him  into  an  avowal  which  pru- 
dence must  repent  "i  Was  not  the  great  Actress  rehearsing  a 
premeditated  part  ? He  turned  round,  as  these  thoughts,  the 
children  of  the  world,  passed  across  him,  for  he  literally 
fancied  that  he  heard  the  sarcastic  laugh  of  Mervale  without. 
Nor  was  he  deceived.  Mervale  was  passing  by  the  thresh 
old,  and  Gionetta  had  told  him  his  friend  was  within.  Who 
does  not  know  the  effect  of  the  world’s  laugh  ? Mervale 
was  the  personation  of  the  world.  The  whole  world  seemed 
to  shout  derision  in  those  ringing  tones.  He  drew  back — he 
recoiled.  Viola  followed  him  with  her  earnest,  impatient 
eyes.  At  last  he  faltered  forth, — “ Do  all  of  thy  profession, 
beautiful  Viola,  exact  marriage  as  the  sole  condition  of  love  ? ’ 
Oh,  bitter  question  ! Oh,  poisoned  taunt ! He  repented  it  the 
moment  after.  He  was  seized  with  remorse  of  reason,  of 
feeling,  and  of  conscience.  He  saw  her  form  shrink,  as  it 
were,  at  his  cruel  words.  He  saw  the  color  come  and  go,  to 
leave  the  writhing  lips  like  marble  ; and  then,  with  a sad,  gem 
tie  look  of  self-pity,  rather  than  reproach,  she  pressed  her 
hands  tightly  to  her  bosom,  and  said, — 

“ He  was  right ! Pardon  me,  Englishman ; I see  now 
indeed,  that  I am  the  Pariah  and  the  outcast.” 

“ Hear  me.  I retract.  Viola,  Viola  ! it  is  for  you  to  for- 
give ! ” 

But  Viola  waved  him  from  her,  and  smiling  mournfully,  as 
she  passed  him  by,  glided  from  the  chamber  ; and  he  did  not 
dare  to  detain  her. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Dafne.  Ma,  chi  lung’  h d’Amor. 

Tirsi.  Chi  teme  e fugge. 

Dafne.  E che  giova  fuggir  da  lui  ch’  ha  P ali  ? 

Tirsi.  Amor  nascente  ha  corte  V ali  !* 

Aminta,  At.  ii.  Sc.  ii. 

When,  Glyndon  found  himself  without  Viola’s  house, 
Mervale,  still  loitering  at  the  door,  seized  his  arm.  Glyndon 
shook  him  off  abruptly. 

* Dafne.  But,  who  is  far  from  Love  ?— Tirsi.  He  who  fears  and  flies. — Dafne. 
What  use  to  flee  from  on^  who  has  wings  ? — Tirsi.  The  wings  of  Love,  while  he 
yet  grows,  a.re  short.  \ 


ZANOm. 


149 


“ Thou  and  thy  counsels,”  said  he,  bitterly,  “ have  made 
me  a coward  and  a wretch.  But  I will  go  home — I wilb write 
to  her.  I will  pour  out  my  whole  soul  ; she  will  forgive  me 
yet.” 

Mervale,  who  was  a man  of  imperturbable  temper,  arranged 
his  ruffles,  which  his  friend’s  angry  gesture  had  a little  dis- 
composed, and  not  till  Glyndon  had  exhausted  himself  awhile 
by  passionate  exclamations  and  reproaches,  did  the  experi- 
enced angler  begin  to  tighten  the  line.  He  then  drew  from 
Glyndon  the  explanation  of  what  had  passed,  and  artfully 
sought  not  to  irritate,  but  soothe  him.  Mervale,  indeed, 
was  by  no  means  a bad  man  : he  had  stronger  moral  notions 
than  are  common  among  the  young.  He  sincerely  reproved 
his  friend  for  harboring  dishonorable  intentions  with  regard 
to  the  actress.  “ Because  I would  not  have  her  thy  wife,  I 
never  dreamed  that  thou  shouldst  degrade  her  to  thy  mistress. 
Better  of  the  two  an  imprudent  match  than  an  illicit  connec- 
tion. But  pause  yet,  do  not  act  on  the  impulse  of  the 
moment.” 

But  there  is  no  time  to  lose.  I have  promised  to  Zanoni 
to  give  him  my  answer  by  to-morrow  night.  Later  than  that 
time,  all  option  ceases.” 

“ Ah  ! ” said  Mervale,  “ this  seems  suspicious.  Explain 
yourself.” 

And  Glyndon,  in  the  earnestness  of  his  passion,  told  his 
friend  what  had  passed  between  himself  and  Zanoni — sup- 
pressing only,  he  scarce  knew  why,  the  reference  to  his  ances- 
tor and  the  mysterious  brotherhood. 

This  recital  gave  to  Mervale  all  the  advantage  he  could 
desire.  Heavens ! with  what  sound,  shrewd  common  sense 
he  talked.  How  evidently  some  charlatanic  coalition  between 
the  actress,  and  perhaps — who  knows  ? — her  clandestine  pro- 
tector, sated  with  possession  ! How  equivocal  the  character  of 
one — the  position  of  the  other  ! What  cunning  in  the  ques- 
tion of  the  actress  ! How  profoundly  had  Glyndon,  at  the 
first  suggestion  of  his  sober  reason,  seen  through  the  snare. 
What  ! was  he  to  be  thus  mystically  cajoled  and  hurried 
into  a rash  marriage,  because  Zanoni,  a mere  stranger,  told 
him  with  a grave  face  that  he  must  decide  before  the  clock 
struck  a certain  hour  ? 

“ Do  this  at  least,”  said  Mervale,  reasonably  enough, — 
“ wait  till  the  time  expires  ; it  is  but  another  day.  Baffle 
Zanoni.  He  tells  thee  that  he  will  meet  thee  before  midnight 
to-morrow,  and  defies  thee  tP  avoid  fiirn.  Pooh  1 let  us  quit 


150  ZANONI. 

Naples  for  some  neighboring  place,  where,  unless  he  be  in» 
deed  the  Devil,  he  cannot  possibly  find  us.  Show  him  that 
you  will  not  be  led  blindfold  even  into  an  act  that  you  medi- 
tate yourself.  Defer  to  write  to  her,  or  to  see  her,  till  after 
to-morrow.  This  is  all  I ask.  Then  visit  her,  and  decide  for 
yourself.” 

Glyndon  was  staggered.  He  could  not  combat  the  reason- 
ings of  his  friend ; he  was  not  convinced,  but  he  hesitated  j 
*and  at  that  moment  Nicot  passed  them.  He  turned  round, 
and  stopped,  as  he  saw  Glyndon. 

“ Well,  and  do  you  think  still  of  the  Pisan i ? ” 

“ Yes  ; and  you ” 

“ Have  seen  and  conversed  with  her.  She  shall  be 
Madame  Nicot  before  this  day  week  ! I am  going  to  the  cafi^ 
in  the  Toledo  ; and  hark  ye,  when  next  you  meet  your  friend 
Signor  Zanoni,  tell  him  that  he  has  twice  crossed  mypath. 
Jean  Nicot,  though  a painter,  is  a plain,  honest  man,  and 
always  pays  his  debts.” 

“ It  is  a good  doctrine  in  money  matters,”  said  Mervale  ; 
“ as  to  revenge,  it  is  not  so  moral,  and  certainly  not  so  wise. 
But  is  it  in  your  love  that  Zanoni  has  crossed  your  path  ? 
How  that,  if  your  suit  prosper  so  well  ? ” 

“ Ask  Viola  Pisani  that  question.  Bah  ! Glyndon,  she  is 
a prude  only  to  thee.  But  I have  no  prejudices.  Once 
more,  farewell.” 

“ Rouse  thyself,  man  ! ” said  Mervale,  slapping  Glyndon 
on  the  shoulder.  “ What  think  you  of  your  fair  one  now  ? ” 

“ This  man  must  lie.” 

“ Will  you  write  to  her  at  once  ? ” 

“ No  ; if  she  be  really  playing  a game,  I could  renounce 
her  without  a sigh.  I will  watch  her  closely ; and  at  all 
events,  Zanoni  shall  not  be  the  master  of  my  fate.  Let  us, 
as  you  advise,  leave  Naples  at  daybreak  to-morrow.” 


ZANONL 


*5* 


CHAPTER  X. 

O chiunque  tu  sia,  che  fuor  d’ogni  uso 
Pieghi  Natura  ad  opre  altere  e strane, 

E,  spiando  i segreti,  entri  al  piu  chiuso 
Spazi’  a tua  voglia  delle  menti  umane — 

Deh,  Dimmi ! * 

Gerus.  Lib.,  Cant.  x.  xviii. 

Early  the  next  morning  the  young  Englishmen  mounted 
their  horses,  and  took  the  road  toward  Baiae.  Glyndon  left 
word  at  his  hotel,  that  if  Signor  Zanoni  sought  him,  it  was  in 
the  neighborhood  of  that  once  celebrated  watering-place  of 
the  ancients  that  he  should  be  found. 

They  passed  by  Viola’s  house,  but  Glyndon  resisted  the 
temptation  of  pausing  there  ; and  after  threading  the  grotto 
of  Posilipo,  they  wound  by  a circuitous  route  back  into  the 
suburbs  of  the  city,  and  took  the  opposite  road,  which 
conducts  to  Portici  and  Pompeii.  It  was  late  at  noon  when 
they  arrived  at  the  former  of  these  places.  Here  they  halted 
to  dine  ; for  Mervale  had  heard  much  of  the  excellence  of  the 
macaroni  at  Portici,  and  Mervale  was  a bon  vivant. 

They  put  up  at  an  inn  of  very  humble  pretensions,  and 
dined  under  an  awning.  Mervale  was  more  than  usually  gay , 
he  pressed  the  Lacrima  upon  his  friend,  and  conversed  gayly. 

“ Well,  my  -dear  friend,  we  have  foiled  Signor  Zanoni  in 
one  of  his  predictions  at  least.  You  will  have  no  faith  in  him 
hereafter.” 

“ The  ides  are  come,  not  gone.” 

“ Tush  ! If  he  be  the  soothsayer,  you  are  not  the  Caesar. 
It  is  your  vanity  that  makes  you  credulous.  Thank  Heaven, 
I do  not  think  myself  of  such  importance  that  the  operations 
of  nature  should  be  changed  in  order  to  frighten  me.” 

“ But  why  should  the  operations  of  nature  be  changed  ? 
There  may  be  a deeper  philosophy  than  we  dream  of — a 
philosophy  that  discovers  the  secrets  of  nature,  but  does  not 
alter,  by  penetrating,  its  courses.” 

“ Ah  ! you  relapse  into  your  heretical  credulity  ; you  sern 
ously  suppose  Zanoni  to  be  a prophet — a reader  of  the  future  ; 
perhaps  an  associate  of  genii  and  spirits  ! ” 

* O thou,  whoever  thou  art,  who  through  every  use  behdest  Nature  to  work? 
foreign  and  strange — and  by  spying  into  her  secrets,  enterest,  at  thy  will,  into  the 
closest  recesses  of  the  human  mind — O speak,  O teU  me  I 


ZANOm, 


IS* 

Here  the  landlord,  a little,  fat,  oily  fellow,  came  up  with  a 
fresh  bottle  of  Lacrima.  He  hoped  their  Excellencies  were 
pleased.  He  was  most  touched — touched  to  the  heart,  that 
they  liked  the  macaroni.  Were  their  Excellencies  going  to 
Vesuvius  ? There  was  a slight  eruption  ; they  could  not  see 
't  where  they  were,  but  it  was  pretty,  and  would  be  prettier 
still  after  sunset. 

“ A capital  idea  ! ” cried  Mervale.  “ What  say  you, 
Glyndon  ? ” 

“ I have  not  yet  seen  an  eruption  ; I should  like  it  much.” 

“ But  is  there  no  danger  ? ” asked  the  prudent  Mervale. 

“ Oh,  not  at  all ; the  mountain  is  very  civil  at  present.  It 
only  plays  a little,  just  to  amuse  their  Excellencies  the 
English.” 

“ Well,  order  the  horses,  and  bring  the  bill ; we  will  go 
before  it  is  dark.  Clarence,  my  friend — nunc  est  bibendum ; 
but  take  care  of  the  pede  libero^  which  will  scarce  do  foi 
walking  on  lava  ! ” 

The  bottle  was  finished,  the  bill  paid ; the  gentlemen 
mounted,  the  landlord  bowed,  and  they  bent  their  way,  in  the 
cool  of  the  delightful  evening,  toward  Resina. 

The  wine,  perhaps  the  excitement  of  his  thoughts,  animated 
Glyndon,  whose  unequal  spirits  were,  at  times,  high  and 
brilliant  as  those  of  a school-boy  released ; and  the  laughter 
of  the  northern  tourists  sounded  oft  and  merrily  along  the 
melancholy  domains  of  buried  cities. 

Hesperus  had  lighted  his  lamp  amid  the  rosy  skies  as 
they  arrived  at  Resina.  Here  they  quitted  their  horses,  and 
took  mules  and  a guide.  As  the  sky  grew  darker  and  more 
dark,  the  Mountain  Fire  burned  with  an  intense  luster.  In 
various  streaks  and  streamlets,  the  fountain  of  flame  rolled 
down  the  dark  summit,  and  the  Englishmen  began  to  feel 
increase  upon  them,  as  they  ascended,  that  sensation  of 
solemnity  and  awe  which  makes  the  very  atmosphere  that 
surrounds  the  Giant  of  the  Plains  of  the  Antique  Hades. 

It  was  night,  when,  leaving  the  mules,  they  ascended  on 
foot,  accompanied  by  their  guide,  and  a peasant  who  bore  a 
rude  torch.  The  guide  was  a conversable,  garrulous  fellow, 
like  most  of  his  country  and  his  calling ; and  Mervale,  who 
possessed  a sociable  temper,  loved  to  amuse  or  to  instruct  him- 
self on  every  incidental  occasion. 

“ Ah  ! Excellency,”  said  the  guide,  “ your  countrymen 
have  a strong  passion  for  the  volcano.  Long  life  to  them  1 


ZANONI. 


153 


they  bring  us  plenty  of  money.  If  our  fortunes  depended  on 
the  Neapolitans,  we  should  starve.” 

“ True,  they  have  no  curiosity,”  said  Mervale.  “ Do  you 
remember,  Glyndon,  the  contempt  with  which  that  old  Count 
said  to  us,  ‘ You  will  go  to  Vesuvius,  I suppose  ? I have 
never  been  ; why  should  I go  ? you  have  cold,  you  have 
hunger,  you  have  fatigue,  you  have  danger,  and  all  for 
nothing  but  to  see  fire,  which  looks  just  as  well  ir/  a brazier 
as  on  a mountain.’  Ha,  ha  ! the  old  fellow  was  right.” 

“ But,  Excellency,”  said  the  guide,  “ that  is  not  all : some 
cavaliers  think  to  ascend  the  mountain  without  our  help.  I 
am  sure  they  deserve  to  tumble  into  the  crater.” 

“ They  must  be  bold  fellows  to  go  alone, — you  don’t  often 
find  such.” 

“ Sometimes  among  the  French,  Signor.  But  the  other 
night — I never  was  so  frightened — I had  been  with  an  Eng- 
lish party ; and  a lady  had  left  a pocket-book  on  the  moun- 
tain, where  she  had  been  sketching.  She  offered  me  a hand- 
some sum  to  return  for  it,  and  bring  it  to  her  at  Naples.  So 
I went  in  the  evening.  I found  it,  sure  enough  ; and  was 
about  to  return,  when  I saw  a figure  that  seemed  to  emerge 
from  the  crater  itself.  The  air  there  was  so  pestiferous,  that 
I could  not  have  conceived  a human  creature  could  breathe 
it,  and  live.  I was  so  astounded  that  I stood  still  as  a stone, 
till  the  figure  came  over  the  hot  ashes,  and  stood  before  me, 
face  to  face.  Santa  Maria,  what  a head  ! ” 

“ What ! hideous  ? ” 

“ No  ; so  beautiful,  but  so  terrible.  It  had  nothing  human 
in  its  aspect.” 

“ And  what  said  the  salamander  ? ” 

“ Nothing  ! It  did  not  even  seem  to  perceive  me,  though 
I was  near  as  I am  to  you : but  its  eyes  seemed  to  emerge 
prying  into  the  air.  It  passed  by  me  quickly,  and,  walking 
across  a stream  of  burning  lava,  soon  vanished  on  the  other 
side  of  the  mountain.  I was  curious  and  foolhardy,  and 
resolved  to  see  if  I could  bear  the  atmosphere  which  this 
visitor  had  left ; but,  though  I did  not  advance  within  thirty 
yards  of  the  spot  at  which  he  had  first  appeared,  I was  driven 
back  by  a vapor  that  well-nigh  stifled  me.  Cospetto  ! I 
have  spat  blood  ever  since.” 

“ Now  will  I lay  a wager  that  you  fancy  this  fire-king  must 
be  Zanoni,”  whispered  Mervale,  laughing. 

The  little  party  had  now  arrived  nearly  at  the  summit  of 
the  mountain  ; and  unspeakably  grand  was  the  spectacle  on 


154 


ZANOm. 


which  they  gazed.  From  the  crater  rose  a vapor,  intensely 
dark,  that  overspread  the  whole  background  of  the  heavens  ; 
in  the  center  whereof  rose  a flame,  that  assumed  a form 
singularly  beautiful.  It  might  have  been  compared  to  a crest 
of  gigantic  feathers,  the  diadem  of  the  mountain,  high-arched, 
and  drooping  downward,  with  the  hues  delicately  shaded  off, 
and  the  whole  shifting  and  tremulous  as  the  plumage  on  a 
warrior’s  helmet.  The  glare  of  the  flame  spread,  luminous 
and  crimson,  over  the  dark  and  rugged  ground  on  which  they 
stood,  and  drew  an  innumerable  variety  of  shadows  from  crag 
and  hollow.  An  oppressive  and  sulphureous  exhalation 
served  to  increase  the  gloomy  and  sublime  terror  of  the  place. 
But  on  turning  from  the  mountain,  and  toward  the  distant 
and  unseen  ocean,  the  contrast  was  wonderfully  great ; the 
heavens  serene  and  blue,  the  stars  still  and  calm  as  the  eyes 
of  Divine  Love.  It  was  as  if  the  realms  of  the  opposing  prin- 
ciples of  Evil  and  of  Good  were  brought  in  one  view  before 
the  gaze  of  man  ! Glyndon — once  more  the  enthusiast,  the 
artist — was  enchained  and  entranced  by  emotions  vague  and 
undefinable,  half  of  delight  and  half  of  pain.  Leaning  on  the 
shoulder  of  his  friend,'  he  gazed  around  him,  and  heard  with 
deepening  awe,  the  rumbling  of  the  earth  below,  the  wheels 
and  voices  of  the  Ministry  of  Nature  in  her  darkest  and  most 
inscrutable  recess.  Suddenly  as  a bomb  from  a shell,  a huge 
stone  was  flung  hundreds  of  yards  up  from  the  jaws  of  the 
crater,  and,  falling  with  a mighty  crash  upon  the  rock  below, 
split  into  ten  thousand  fragments,  which  bounded  down  the 
sides  of  the  mountain,  sparkling  and  groaning  as  they  went. 
One  of  these,  the  largest  fragment,  struck  the  narrow  space 
of  soil  between  the  Englishmen  and  the  guide,  not  three  feet 
from  the  spot  where  the  former  stood.  Mervale  uttered  an 
exclamation  of  terror,  and  Glyndon  held  his  breath,  and  shud« 
dered. 

“ Diavolo  ! ” cried  the  guide.  “ Descend,  Excellencies — 
descend  ! we  have  not  a moment  to  lose  ; follow  me  close  ! ” 

So  saying,  the  guide  and  the  peasant  fled  with  as  much 
swiftness  as  they  were  able  to  bring  to  bear.  Mervale,  ever 
more  prompt  and  ready  than  his  friend,  imitated  their 
example  ; and  Glyndon,  more  confused  than  alarmed,  fol- 
lowed close.  But  they  had  not  gone  many  yards,  before,  with 
a rushing  and  sudden  blast,  came  from  the  crater  an 
enormous  volume  of  vapor.  It  pursued — it  overtook — it  over- 
spread them.  It  swept  the  light  from  the  heavens.  All  was 
abrupt  and  utter  darkness  ; and  through  the  gloom  was  heard 


ZANOm. 


*55 


the  shout  of  the  guide,  already  distant,  and  lost  in  an  instant 
amid  the  sound  of  the  rushing  gust  and  the  groans  of  the 
earth  beneath.  Glyndon  paused.  He  was  separated  from 
his  friend — from  the  guide.  He  was  alone — with  the  Dark- 
ness and  the  Terror.  The  vapor  rolled  sullenly  away ; the 
form  of  the  plumed  fire  was  again  dimly  visible,  and  its 
struggling  and  perturbed  reflection  again  shed  a glow  over^ 
the  horrors  of  the  path.  Glyndon  recovered  himself,  ana 
sped  onward.  Below,  he  heard  the  voice  of  Mervale  calling 
on  him,  though  he  no  longer  saw  his  form.  The  sound  served 
as  a guide.  Dizzy  and  breathless;  he  bounded  forward ; 
when — hark  ! — a sullen,  slow,  rolling  sounded  in  his  ear  ! 
He  halted — and  turned  back  to  gaze.  The  fire  had  over- 
flowed its  course  : it  had  opened  itself  a channel  amid  the 
furrows  of  the  mountain.  The  stream  pursued  him  fast — 
fast ; and  the  hot  breath  of  the  chasing  and  preternatural  foe 
came  closer  and  closer  upon  his  cheek ! He  turned  aside  : 
he  climbed  desperately,  with  hands  and  feet,  upon  a crag, 
that,  to  the  right,  broke  the  scathed  and  blasted  level  of  the 
soil.  The  stream  rolled  beside  and  beneath  him,  and  then, 
taking  a sudden  wind  round  the  spot  on  which  he  stood, 
interposed  its  liquid  fire — a broad  and  impassable  barrier 
between  his  resting-place  and  escape.  There  he  stood,  cut 
off  from  descent,  and  with  no  alternative  but  to  retrace  his 
steps  toward  the  crater,  and  thence  seek,  without  guide  or 
clue,  some  other  pathway. 

• For  a moment  his  courage  left  him  : he  cried  in  despair, 
and  in  that  over-strained  pitch  of  voice  which  is  never  heard 
afar  off,  to  the  guide — to  Mervale,  to  return  to  aid  him. 

No  answer  came  ; and  the  Englishman,  thus  abandoned 
solely  to  his  own  resources,  felt  his  spirit  and  energy  rise 
against  the  danger.  He  turned  back,  and  ventured  as  far 
toward  the  crater  as  the  noxious  exhalation  would  permit ; 
then,  gazing  below,  carefully  and  deliberately,  he  chalked  out 
for  himself  a path,  by  which  he  trusted  to  shun  the  direction 
the  fire-stream  had  taken  ; and  trod  firmly  and  quickly  over 
the  crumbling  and  heated  strata. 

He  had  proceeded  about  fifty  yards,  when  he  halted 
abruptly ; an  unspeakable  and  unaccountable  horror,  not 
hitherto  experienced  amid  all  his  peril,  came  over  him.  He 
shook  in  every  limb  ; his  muscles  refused  his  will — he  felt,  as 
it  were,  palsied  and  death-stricken.  The  horror,  I say,  was 
unaccountable,  for  the  path  seemed  clear  and  safe.  The  fire, 
above  and  behind,  burned  clear  and  far , and  beyond,  the 


156 


ZAA^Om. 


stars  lent  him  their  cheering  guidance.  No  obstacle  was  vis* 
ible — no  danger  seemed  at  hand.  As  thus,  spell-bound  and 
panio-stricken,  he  stood  chained  to  the  soil — his  breast 
heaving ; large  drops  rolling  down  his  brow  ; and  his  eyes 
starting  wildly  from  their  sockets — he  saw  before  him,  at 
some  distance,  gradually  shaping  itself  more  and  more  dis- 
tinctly to  his  gaze,  a Colossal  Shadow — a shadow  that  seemed 
partially  borrowed  from  the  human  shape,  but  immeasurably 
above  the  human  stature  ; vague,  dark,  almost  formless  ; and 
differing,  he  could  not  tell  where,  or  why,  not  only  from  the 
proportions,  but  also  from  the  limbs  and  outline  of  man. 

The  glare  of  the  volcano,  that  seemed  to  shrink  and  col- 
lapse from  this  gigantic  and  appalling  apparition,  nevertheless 
threw  its  light,  redly  and  steadily,  upon  another  shape  that 
stood  beside,  quiet  and  motionless  ; and  it  was,  perhaps,  the 
contrast  of  these  two  things, — the  Being  and  the  Shadow, — 
that  impressed  the  beholder  with  the  difference  between  them 
— the  Man  and  the  Superhuman.  It  was  but  for  a moment, 
nay,  for  the  tenth  part  of  a moment, — that  this  sight  was  per- 
mitted to  the  wanderer.  A second  eddy  of  sulphureous  vapor 
from  the  volcano,  yet  more  rapidly,  yet  more  densely  than  its 
predecessor,  rolled  over  the  mountain  ; and  either  the  nature 
of  the  exhalation,  or  the  excess  of  his  own  dread,  was  such, 
that  Glyndon,  after  one  wild  gasp  for  breath,  fell  senseless  on 
the  erTth. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

Was  hab’  ich, 

Went!  ich  nicht  Alles  habe  ? — sprach  der  Jiingling.* 

Das  Verschleierte  Bild  zu  Sais. 

Mervale  and  the  Italians  arrived  in  safety  at  the  spot 
where  they  had  left  their  mules ; and  not  till  they  had  re- 
covered their  own  alarm  and  breath  did  they  think  of  Glyn- 
don. But  then,  as  the  minutes  passed,  and  he  appeared  not, 
Mervale,  whose  heart  was  as  good,  at  least,  as  human  hearts 
are  in  general,  grew  seriously  alarmed.  He  insisted  on  return- 
ing, to  search  for  his  friend  , and  by  dint  of  prodigal  promises, 
prevailed  at  last  on  the  guide  to  accompany  him.  The  lower 
part  of  the  mountain  lay  calm  and  white  in  the  starlight ; and 

* “ What  have  I,  if  I possess  not  All  ? ” said  the  youth. 


ZANOm. 


*57 


the  guide’s  practiced  eye  could  discern  all  objects  on  the  sur- 
face, at  a considerable  distance.  They  had  not,  however, 
gone  very  far,  before  they  perceived  two  forms,  slowly  ap- 
proaching toward  them. 

As  they  came  near,  Mervale  recognized  the  form  of  his 
friend.  “ Thank  Heaven,  he  is  safe  ! ” he  cried,  turning  to  the 
guide, 

“ Holy  angels,  befriend  us  ! ” said  the  Italian,  trembling — 
“Behold  the  very  being  that  crossed  me  last  Friday  night 
It  is  he  ! but  his  face  is  human  now ! ” 

“ Signor  Inglese,”  said  the  voice  of  Zanoni,  as  Glyndon — 
pale,  wan,  and  silent — returned  passively  the  joyous  greeting 
of  Mervale,  “ Signor  Inglese,  I told  your  friend  that  we  should 
meet  to-night.  You  see  you  have  7iot  foiled  my  prediction.” 

“ But  how  ? — but  where  ? ” stammered  Mervale,  in  great  con- 
fusion and  surprise. 

“ I found  your  friend  stretched  on  the  ground,  overpowered 
by  the  mephitic  exhalation  of  the  crater.  I bore  him  to  a 
purer  atmosphere ; and,  as  I know  the  mountain  well,  I have 
conducted  him  safely  to  you.  This  is  all  our  history.  You 
see,  sir,  that  were  it  not  for  that  prophecy  which  you  desired 
to  frustrate,  your  friend  would,  ere  this  time,  have  been  a 
corpse  : one  minute  more,  and  the  vapor  had  done  its  work. 
Adieu  ; good  night,  and  pleasant  dreams.” 

“ But,  my  preserver,  you  will  not  leave  us  ! ” said  Glyndon, 
anxiously,  and  speaking  for  the  first  time.  “Will  you  not  re- 
turn with  us  ? ” 

Zanoni  paused,  and  drew  Glyndon  aside.  “ Young  man,” 
said  he  gravely,  “ it  is  necessary  that  we  should  again  meet  to- 
night. It  is  necessary  that  you  should,  ere  the  first  hour  of 
morning,  decide  on  your  own  fate.  I know  that  you  have  in 
suited  her  whom  you  profess  to  love.  It  is  not  too  late  to 
repent.  Consult  not  your  friend  ; — he  is  sensible  and  wise ; but 
not  now  is  his  wisdom  needed.  There  are  times  in  life,  when, 
from  the  imagination,  and  not  the  reason,  should  wisdom  come 
— this,  for  you,  is  one  of  them.  I ask  not  your  answer  now. 
Collect  your  thoughts — recover  your  jaded  and  scattered 
spirits.  It  wants  two  hours  of  midnight.  Before  midnight  I 
will  be  with  you.” 

“ Incomprehensible  being  ! ” replied  the  Englishman,  “ I 
would  leave  the  life  you  have  preserved  in  your  own  handte ; 
but  what  I have  seen  this  night  has  swept  even  Viola  from  my 
thoughts.  A fiercer  desire  than  that  of  love  burns  in  my  veins 
— the  desire  not  to  resemble  jut^  to  surpass  my  kind — the 


ZANONL 


158 

desire  to  penetrate  and  to  share  the  secret  of  your  own 
existence — the  desire  of  a preternatural  knowledge  and  un~ 
earthly  power.  I make  my  choice.  In  my  ancestor’s  name,  1 
adjure  and  remind  th^e  of  thy  pledge.  Instruct  me  ; school 
me  ; make  me  thine ; and  I surrender  to  thee  at  once,  and 
without  a murmur,  the  woman  whom,  till  I saw  thee,  I would 
have  defied  a world  to  obtain.” 

“ I bid  thee  consider  well ; on  the  one  hand,  Viola,  a tran- 
quil home,  a happy  and  serene  life.  On  the  other  hand,  all  is 
darkness — darkness  that  even  these  eyes  cannot  penetrate.” 

“ But  thou  hast  told  me,  that  if  I wed  Viola,  I must  be  con- 
tented with  the  common  existence, — if  I refuse,  it  is  to  aspire 
to  thy  knowledge  and  thy  power.” 

“ Vain  man  ! — knowledge  and  power  are  not  happiness.” 

“ But  they  are  better  than  happiness.  Say ! — if  I marry 

Viola,  wilt  thou  be  my  master — my  guide  ? Say  this,  and  I 
am  resolved.” 

It  were  impossible.” 

“ Then  I renounce  her ! I renounce  love.  I renounce  hap- 
piness. Welcome  solitude — welcome  despair ; if  they  are  the 
entrances  to  thy  dark  and  sublime  secret.” 

“ I will  not  take  thv  answer  now.  Before  the  last  hour 
of  night,  thou  shalt  give  it  in  one  word — aye  or  no  ! Farewell 
till  then.” 

Zanoni  waved  his  hand  ; and  descending  rapidly,  was  seen 
no  more. 

Glyndon  rejoined  his  impatient  and  wondering  friend  ; but 
Mervale,  gazing  on  his  face,  saw  that  a great  change  had 
passed  there.  The  flexile  and  dubious  expression  of  youth 
was  forever  gone.  The  features  were  locked,  rigid,  and  stern; 
and  so  faded  was  the  natural  bloom,  that  an  hour  seemed  to 
have  done  the  work  of  years. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Was  ist ’s 

Das  hinter  diesem  Schleier  sich  verbirgt  ? • 

Das  Verschleierte  Bild  zu  Sais. 

On  returning  from  Vesuvius  or  Pompeii,  you  enter  Naples 
through  its  most  animated,  its  most  Neapolitan  quarter — • 
through  that  quarter  in  which  Modern  life  most  closely  re» 

* What  is  it  that  conceals  itself  behind  this  veil  > 


ZAJVOM 


159 


sembles  the  Ancient ; and  in  which,  when,  on  a fair  day,  the 
thoroughfare  swarms  alike  with  Indolence  and  Trade,  you  are 
impressed  at  once  with  the  recollection  of  that  restless,  lively 
race,  from  which  the  population  of  Naples  derives  its  origin  ; 
so  that  in  one  day  you  may  see  at  Pompeii  the  habitations  of 
a remote  age  ; and  on  the  Mole,  at  Naples,  you  may  imagine 
you  behold  the  very  beings  with  whom  those  habitations  had 
been  peopled. 

But  now,  as  the  Englishmen  rode  slowly  through  the  de- 
serted streets,  lighted  but  by  the  lamps  of  heaven,  all  the 
gayety  of  day  was  hushed  and  breathless.  Here  and  there, 
stretched  under  a portico  or  a dingy  booth,  were  sleeping 
groups  of  houseless  Lazzaroni : a tribe  now  merging  its  in- 
dolent individuality  amid  an  energetic  and  active  popu- 
lation. 

The  Englishman  rode  on  in  silence ; for  Glyndon  neither 
appeared  to  heed  nor  hear  the  questions  and  comments  of 
Mervale,  and  Mervale  himself  was  almost  as  weary  as  the 
jaded  animal  he  bestrode. 

Suddenly  the  silence  of  earth  and  ocean  was  broken  by  the 
sound  of  a distant  clock,  that  proclaimed  the  quarter  preced- 
ing the  last  hour  of  night.  Glyndon  started  from  his  reverie, 
and  looked  anxiously  round.  As  the  final  stroke  died,  the 
noise  of  hoofs  rung  on  the  broad  stones  of  the  pavement ; 
and  from  a narrow  street  to  the  right,  emerged  the  form  of  a 
solitary  horseman.  He  neared  the  Englishmen,  and  Glyndon 
recognized  the  features  and  mien  of  Zanoni. 

“ What ! do  we  meet  again,  Signor  ? said  Mervale,  in  a 
vexed  but  drowsy  tona 

“ Your  friend  and  I have  business  together,”  replied  Zanoni, 
as  he  wheeled  his  steed  to  the  side  of  Glyndon.  “ But  it  will 
be  soon  transacted.  Perhaps  you,  sir,  will  ride  on  to  you) 
hotel.” 

Alone!” 

“ There  is  no  danger ! ” returned  Zanoni,  with  a slight  ex 
pression  of  disdain  in  his  voice. 

“ None  to  me ; — but  to  Glyndon  ? ” 

“ Danger  from  me  ! Ah,  perhaps  you  are  right.” 

“ Go  on,  my  dear  Mervale,”  said  Glyndon  ; “ I will  join  you 
before  you  reach  the  hotel.” 

Mervale  nodded,  whistled,  and  pushed  his  horse  into  a kind 
of  amble. 

“ Now  your  answer — quick  I ” 


l6o 


ZANOm. 


“ I have  decided.  The  love  of  Viola  has  vanished  front 
my  heart.  The  pursuit  is  over.’’ 

“ You  have  decided  ? ” 

I have  ; — and  now  my  reward.” 

Thy  reward  ! Well ; ere  this  hour  to-morrow,  it  shall 
await  thee.” 

Zanoni  gave  the  rein  to  his  horse ; it  sprang  forward  with  a 
Dound ; the  sparks  flew  from  its  hoofs,  and  horse  and  rider 
disappeared  amid  the  shadows  of  the  street  whence  they  had 
emerged. 

Mervale  was  surprised  to  see  his  friend  by  his  side,  a 
minute  after  they  had  parted. 

“ What  has  passed  between  you  and  Zanoni  ? ” 

“ Mervale,  do  not  ask  me  to-night  I I am  in  a dream.” 

“ I do  not  wonder  at  it,  for  even  I am  in  a sleep.  Let  us 
push  on.” 

In  the  retirement  of  his  chamber,  Glyndon  sought  to  rec- 
ollect his  thoughts.  He  sat  down  on  the  foot  of  his  bed, 
and  pressed  his  hands  tightly  to  his  throbbing  temples.  The 
events  of  the  last  few  hours ; the  apparition  of  the  gigantic 
and  shadowy  Companion  of  the  Mystic,  amid  the  fires  and 
clouds  of  Vesuvius ; the  strange  encounter  with  Zanoni  him- 
self, on  a spot  in  which  he  could  never,  by  ordinary  reasoning, 
have  calculated  on  finding  Glyndon,  filled  his  mind  with  emo- 
tions, in  which  terror  and  awe  the  least  prevailed.  A fire, 
the  train  of  which  had  been  long  laid,  was  lighted  at  his  heart 
— the  asbestos  fire,  that,  once  lit,  is  never  to  be  quenched. 
All  his  early  aspirations — his  young  ambition — his  longings 
for  the  laurel,  were  merged  in  one  passionate  yearning  to 
overpass  the  bounds  of  the  common  knowledge  of  man,  and 
reach  that  solemn  spot,  between  two  worlds,  on  which  the 
mysterious  stranger  appeared  to  have  fixed  his  home. 

Far  from  recalling  with  renewed  affright  the.  remembrance 
of  the  apparition  that  had  so  appalled  him,  the  recollection 
only  served  to  kindle  and  concentrate  his  curiosity  into  a 
burning  focus.  He  had  said  aright — love  had  vanished from  his 
heart ; there  was  no  longer  a serene  space  amid  its  disordered 
elements  for  human  affection  to  move  and  breathe.  The  en- 
thusiast was  rapt  from  this  earth ; and  he  would  have  surren- 
dered all  that  mortal  beauty  ever  promised,  that  mortal  hope 
ever  whispered,  for  one  hour  with  Zanoni  beyond  the  portals 
of  the  visible  world. 

He  rose,  oppressed  and  fevered  with  the  new  thoughts  that 
raged  within  him,  and  threw  open  his  casement  for  air.  The 


ZANONI. 


165 

ocean  lay  suffused  in  the  starry  light,  and  the  stillness  of  ths 
heavens  never  more  eloquently  preached  the  morality  of  re- 
pose to  the  madness  of  earthly  passions.  But  such  was 
Glyndon’s  mood,  that  their  very  hush  only  served  to  deepen 
the  wild  desires  that  preyed  upon  his  soul ; and  the  solemn 
stars,  that  are  mysteries  in  themselves,  seemed,  by  a kindred 
sympathy,  to  agitate  the  wings  of  the  spirit  no  longer  content- 
ed with  its  cage.  As  he  gazed,  a star  shot  from  its  brethren, 
and  vanished  from  the  depth  of  space  I 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

— ■ 0,  be  gone  I 

By  heaven,  I love  thee  better  than  myself, 

For  I came  hither  arm’d  against  myself. 

Romeo  and  Juliet. 

The  young  actress  and  Gionetta  had  returned  from  the 
theater ; and  Viola,  fatigued  and  exhausted,  had  thrown  her- 
self on  a sofa,  while  Gionetta  busied  herself  with  the  long 
tresses,  which,  released  from  the  fillet  that  bound  them,  half- 
concealed  the  form  of  the  actress,  like  a veil  of  threads  of 
gold.  As  she  smoothed  the  luxuriant  locks,  the  old  nurse  ran 
gossiping  on  about  the  little  events  of  the  night,  the  scandal 
and  politics  of  the  scenes  and  the  tire-room.  Gionetta  was  a 
worthy  soul.  Almanzor,  in  Dryden’s  tragedy  of  “ Almahide,” 
did  not  change  sides  with  more  gallant  indifference  than 
the  exemplary  nurse.  She  was  at  last  grieved  and  scandalized 
that  Viola  had  not  selected  one  chosen  cavalier.  But  the 
choice  she  left  wholly  to  her  fair  charge.  Zegri  or  Abencer- 
rage,  Glyndon  or  Zanoni,  it  had  been  the  same  to  her,  except 
that  the  rumors  she  had  collected  respecting  the  latter,  com- 
bined with  his  own  recommendations  of  his  rival,  had  given 
her  preference  to  the  Englishman.  She  interpreted  ill  ihe 
impatient  and  heavy  sigh  with  which  Viola  greeted  her  praises 
of  Glyndon,  and  her  wonder  that  he  had  of  late  so  neglected 
his  attentions  behind  the  scenes,  and  she  exhausted  all  her 
powers  of  panegyric  upon  the  supposed  object  of  the  sigh. 
“ And  then  too,”  she  said,  “ if  nothing  else  were  to  be  said 
against  the  other  signor,  it  is  enough  that  he  is  about  to  leave 
N aples.” 

“ Leave  Naples  ! — ^Zanoni  ? ” 

“ Yes,  darling  1 In  parsing  by  the  Mole  to-day,  there  was 

II 


ZANONI. 


162 

a crowd  round  some  outlandish-looking  sailors.  His  ship 
arrived  this  morning  and  anchors  in  the  bay.  The  sailors 
say  that  they  are  to  be  prepared  to  sail  with  the  first  wind ; 
they  were  taking  in  fresh  stores.  They ” 

“ Leave  me,  Gionetta  ! Leave  me  ! ” 

The  time  had  already  passed  when  the  girl  could  confide 
in  Gionetta.  Her  thoughts  had  advanced  to  that  point  when 
the  heart  recoils  from  all  confidence,  and  feels  that  it  cannot 
be  comprehended.  Alone  now,  in  the  principal  apartment  of 
the  house,  she  paced  its  narrow  boundaries  with  tremulous 
and  agitated  steps  : she  recalled  the  frightful  suit  of  Nicot, — 
the  injurious  taunt  of  Glyndon ; and  she  sickened  at  the  re- 
membrance of  the  hollow  applauses,  which,  bestowed  on  the 
actress,  not  the  woman,  only  subjected  her  to  contumely  and 
insult.  In  that  room  the  recollection  of  her  father’s  death, 
the  withered  laurel  and  the  broken  chords,  rose  chillingly 
before  her.  Hers,  she  felt,  was  a yet  gloomier  fate — the 
chords  may  break  while  the  laurel  is  yet  green.  The  lamp, 
waning  in  its  socket,  burned  pale  and  dim,  and  her  eyes  in- 
stinctively turned  from  the  darker  corner  of  the  room. 
Orphan  ! by  the  hearth  of  thy  parents,  dost  thou  fear  the 
presence  of  the  dead  ? 

And  was  Zanoni  indeed  about  to  quit  Naples  ? Should 
she  see  him  no  more  ? Oh,  fool,  to  think  that  there  was 
grief  in  any  other  thought ! The  Past ! — that  was  gone  ! 
The  Future  ! — there  was  no  Future  to  her,  Zanoni  absent ! 
But  this  was  the  night  of  the  third  day  on  which  Zanoni  had 
told  her  that,  come  what  might,  he  would  visit  her  again.  It 
was,  then,  if  she  might  believe  him,  some  appointed  crisis  in 
her  fate ; and  how  should  she  tell  him  of  Glyndon’s  hateful 
words  ? The  pure  and  the  proud  mind  can  never  confide  its 
wrongs  to  another,  only  its  triumphs  and  its  happiness.  But  at 
that  late  hour  would  Zanoni  visit  her — could  she  receive  him  ? 
Midnight  was  at  hand.  Still  in  undefined  suspense,  in  intense 
anxiety,  she  lingered  in  the  room.  The  quarter  before  mid- 
night sounded,  dull  and  distant.  All  was  still,  and  she  was 
about  to  pass  to  her  sleeping-room,  when  she  heard  the  hoofs 
of  a horse  at  full  speed ; the  sound  ceased  ; there  was  a knock 
at  the  door.  Her  heart  beat  violently ; but  fear  gave  way  to 
another  sentiment  when  she  heard  a voice,  too  well  known, 
calling  on  her  name.  She  paused,  and  then  with  the  fear- 
lessness of  innocence,  descended^  and  unbarred  the  door. 

Zanoni  entered  with  a light  and  hasty  step.  His  horse 


ZANOm.  163 

nian's  cloak  fitted  tightly  to  his  noble  form ; and  his  broad 
hat  threw  a gloomy  shade  over  his  commanding  features. 

The  girl  followed  him  into  the  room  she  had  just  left, 
trembling  and  blushing  deeply,  and  stood  before  him  with  the 
lamp  she  held  shining  upward  on  her  cheek  and  the  long  hair 
that  fell  like  a shower  of  light  over  the  half-clad  shoulders  and 
heaving  bust. 

“ Viola,”  said  Zanoni  in  a voice  that  spoke  deep  emotion, 
“ I am  by  thy  side  once  more  to  save  thee.  Not  a moment 
is  to  be  lost.  Thou  must  fly  with  me,  or  remain  the  victim 

of  the  Prince  di . I would  have  made  the  charge  I now 

undertake  another’s  ; thou  knowest  I would — thou  knowest 
it ! — but  he  is  not  worthy  of  thee  ! the  cold  Englishman  ! I 
throw  myself  at  thy  feet ; have  trust  in  me,  and  fly.” 

He  grasped  her  hand  passionately  as  he  dropped  on  his 
knee,  and  looked  up  into  her  face  with  his  bright  beseeching 
eyes. 

“ Fly  with  thee  ! ” said  Viola,  scarce  believing  her  senses. 

“With  me.  Name,  fame,  honor — all  will  be  sacrificed  if 
thou  dost  not.” 

“ Then — then,”  said  the  wild  girl,  falteringly,  and  turning 
aside  her  face ; “ then  I am  not  indifferent  to  thee  ? — thou 
wouldst  not  give  me  to  another .?  ” 

Zanoni  was  silent ; but  his  breast  heaved,  his  cheeks  flushed, 
his  eyes  darted  dark  and  impassioned  fire. 

“ Speak ! ” exclaimed  Viola,  in  jealous  suspicion  of  his 
silence. 

“ Indifferent  to  me ! No ; but  I dare  not  yet  say  that  I 
love  thee.” 

“ Then  what  matters  my  fate  ? ” said  Viola,  turning  pale, 
and  shrinking  from  his  side ; “ leave  me — I fear  no  danger. 
My  life,  and  therefore  my  honor,  is  in  mine  own  hands.” 

“ Be  not  so  mad,”  said  Zanoni.  “ Hark  ! do  you  hear  the 
neigh  of  my  steed  ? — it  is  an  alarum  that  warns  us  of  the 
approaching  peril.  Haste,  or  you  are  lost ! ” 

“Why  dost  thou  care  for  me?”  said  the  girl,  bitterly. 
“Thou  hast  read  my  heart;  thou  knowest  that  thou  art 
become  the  lord  of  my  destiny.  But  to  be  bound  beneath 
the  weight  of  a cold  obligation ; to  be  the  beggar  on  the  eyes 
of  Indifference  ; to  cast  myself  on  one  who  loves  me  not ; that 
were  indeed  the  vilest  sin  of  my  sex.  Ah,  Zanoni,  rather  let 
me  die ! ” 

She  had  thrown  back  her  clustering  hair  from  her  face 
while  she  spoke ; and  as  she  now  stood,  with  her  arms  droop- 


ZANONI. 


164 

ing  mournfully,  and  her  hands  clasped  together  with  the  proud 
bitterness  of  her  wayward  spirit,  giving  new  zest  and  charm 
to  her  singular  beauty,  it  was  impossible  to  conceive  a sight 
more  irresistible  to  the  eye  and  the  heart. 

“ Tempt  me  not  to  thine  own  danger — perhaps  destruc- 
tion ! ” exclaimed  Zanoni,  in  faltering  accents.  “ Thou  canst 
not  dream  of  what  thou  wouldst  demand — come  ! ” and,  advanc- 
ing, he  wound  his  arm  around  her  waist.  “Come,  Viola* 
believe  at  least  in  my  friendship,  my  honor,  my  protec- 
tion  ” 

“ And  not  thy  love,”  said  the  Italian,  turning  on  him  her 
reproachful  eyes.  Those  eyes  met  his,  and  he  could  not  with- 
draw from  the  charm  of  their  gaze.  He  felt  her  heart  throb- 
bing beneath  his  own ; her  breath  came  warm  upon  his  cheek. 
He  trembled — He!  the  lofty,  the  mysterious  Zanoni,  who 
seemed  to  stand  aloof  from  his  race.  With  a deep  and  burn- 
ing sigh,  he  murmured,  “ Viola,  I love  thee  ! Oh  ! ” he  con- 
tinued, passionately,  and  releasing  his  hold,  he  threw  himself 
abruptly  at  her  feet,  “ I no  more  command ; — as  woman 
should  be  wooed,  I woo  thee.  From  the  first  glance  of  those 
eyes — from  the  first  sound  of  thy  voice,  thou  becamest  too 
fatally  dear  to  me.  Thou  speakest  of  fascination — it  lives  and 
it  breathes  in  thee  ! I fled  from  N aples  to  fly  from  thy  presence 
— it  pursued  me.  Months,  years  passed,  and  thy  sweet  face 
still  shone  upon  my  heart.  I returned,  because  I pictured 
thee  alone  and  sorrowful  in  the  world ; and  knew  that  dan- 
gers. from  which  I might  save  thee,  were  gathering  near  thee 
and  around.  Beautiful  Soul ! whose  leaves  I have  read  with 
reverence,  it  was  for  thy  sake,  thine  alone,  that  I would  have 
given  thee  to  one  who  might  make  thee  happier  on  earth  than 
I can.  Viola  ! Viola ! thou  knowest  not — never  canst  thou 
know — how  dear  thou  art  to  me  ! ” 

It  is  in  vain  to  seek  for  words  to  describe  the  delight — the 
proud,  the  full,  the  complete,  and  the  entire  delight  that  filled 
the  heart  of  the  Neapolitan.  He  whom  she  considered  too 
lofty  even  for  love — more  humble  to  her  than  those  she  had 
half-despised ! She  was  silent,  but  her  eyes  spoke  to  him ; 
and  then  slowly,  as  aware,  at  last,  that  the  human  love  had 
advanced  on  the  ideal,  she  shrunk  into  the  terrors  of  a 
modest  and  virtuous  nature.  She  did  not  dare — she  did 
not  dream  to  ask  him  the  question  she  had  so  fearlessly  made 
to  Glyndon  ; but  she  felt  a sudden  coldness  — a sense  that  a 
barrier  was  yet  between  love  and  love.  “ Oh,  Zanoni ' ’’  she 
murmured,  with  downcast  eyes,  ask  me  not  to  fly  witk  thee  ; 


ZANOm.  165 

tempt  me  not  to  my  shame.  Thou  woutdst  protect  me  from 
others.  Oh,  protect  me  from  thyself  ! ” 

‘‘  Poor  orphan  ! ” said  he  tenderly,  “ and  canst  thou  think 
that  I ask  from  thee  one  sacrifice, — still  less  the  greatest  that 
woman  can  give  to  love As  my  wife  I woo  thee,  and  by 
every  tie,  and  every  vow  that  can  hallow  and  endear  affection. 
Alas ! they  have  belied  love  to  thee  indeed,  if  thou  dost  not 
know  the  religion  that  belongs  to  it ! They  who  truly  love 
would  seek,  for  the  treasure  they  obtain,  every  bond  that  can 
make  it  lasting  and  secure.  Viola,  weep  not,  unless  thou 
givest  me  the  holy  right  to  kiss  away  thy  tears ! ” 

And  that  beautiful  face,  no  more  averted,  drooped  11  pen 
his  bosom  ; and  as  he  bent  own,  his  lips  sought  the  rosy 
mouth  : a long  and  burning  kiss — danger — life — the  world  was 
forgotten  ! Suddenly  Zanoni  tore  himself  from  her. 

“ Hearest  thou  the  wind  that  sighs,  and  dies  away } As 
that  wind,  my  power  to  preserve  thee,  to  guard  thee,  to  fore- 
see the  storm  in  thy  skies,  is  gone.  No  matter.  Haste,  haste  ; 
and  may  love  supply  the  loss  of  all  that  it  has  dared  to  sacri- 
fice ! Come.” 

Viola  hesitated  no  more.  She  threw  the  mantle  over  her 
shoulders,  and  gathered  up  her  dishevelled  hair ; a moment,  and 
she  was  prepared,  when  a sudden  crash  was  heard  below. 

“ Too  late  ! — fool  that  I was — too  late  ! ” cried  Zanoni,  in  a 
sharp  tone  of  agony,  as  he  hurried  to  the  door  He  opened  it, 
only  to  be  barne  back  by  the  press  of  armed  men.  The  room 
literally  swarmed  with  the  followers  of  the  ravisher,  masked, 
and  armed  to  the  teeth. 

Viola  was  already  in  the  grasp  of  two  of  the  myrmidons. 
Her  shriek  smote  the  ear  of  Zanoni.  He  sprang  forward  : 
and  Viola  heard  his  wild  cry  in  a foreign  tongue.  She  saw 
the  blades  of  the  ruffians  pointed  at  his  breast ! She  lost  her 
senses  ; and  when  she  recovered,  she  found  herself  gagged, 
and  in  a carriage  that  was  driven  rapidly,  by  the  side  of  a 
masked  and  motionless  figure.  The  carriage  stopped  at  the 
portals  of  a gloomy  mansion.  The  gates  opened  noiselessly  ,* 
a broad  flight  of  steps,  brilliantly  illumined,  was  before  her. 
She  was  in  the  palace  of  the  Prince  di . 


i66 


ZANOm* 


CHAPTER  xnr. 

Ma  lasciamj,  per  Dio,  Signore,  ormid 
Di  parlar  d’  ira,  e di  cantar  ii  morte.  • 

Orl.  Fur.,  Canto  xvfi. 

V 

‘The  young  actress  was  led  co,  and  left  alone  in  a chambel 
adorned  with  all  the  luxurious  and  half-Eastern  taste  that,  at 
one  time,  characterized  the  palaces  of  the  great  seigneurs  of 
Italy.  Her  first  thought  was  for  Zanoni.  Was  he  yet  living  ? 
Had  he  escaped  unscathed  the  blades  of  the  foe  ? — her  new 
treasure — the  new  light  of  her  life — her  lord,  at  last  her  lover  ? 

She  had  short  time  for  reflection.  She  heard  steps  ap- 
proaching the  chamber ; she  drew  back,  but  trembled  not. 
A courage,  not  of  herself,  never  known  before,  sparkled  in 
her  eyes,  and  dilated  her  stature.  Living  or  dead,  she  would 
be  faithful  still  to  Zanoni ! There  w'as  a new  motive  to  the 
preservation  of  honor.  The  door  opened,  and  the  Prince 
entered  in  the  gorgeous  and  gaudy  costume  still  worn  at  that 
time  in  Naples. 

“ Fair  and  cruel  one,”  said  he,  advancing,  with  a half-sneel 
upon  his  lip,  “ thou  wilt  not  too  harshly  blame  the  violence  of 
love.”  He  attempted  to  take  her  hand  as  he  spoke. 

“ Nay,”  said  he,  as  she  recoiled,  “ reflect  that  thou  art  now 
in  the  power  of  one  that  never  faltered  in  the  pursuit  of  an 
object  less  dear  to  him  than  thou  art.  Thy  lover,  presump- 
tuous though  he  be,  is  not  by  to  save  thee.  Mine  thou  art ; 
but  instead  of  diy  master,  suffer  me  to  be  thy  slave.” 

“ Prince,”  said  Viola,  with  a stern  gravity,  “ your  boast  is  in 
vain.  Your  power  ' I am  not  in  your  power.  Life  and  death 
are  in  my  own  hands.  I will  not  defy,  but  I do  not  fear  you.  I 
feel — and  in  some  feelings,”  added  Viola,  with  a solemnity 
almost  thrilling,  “ there  is  all  the  strength,  and  all  the  divinity 
of  knowledge — I feel  that  I 9m  safe  even  here  ; but  you — you. 
Prince  di -,  have  brought  danger  to  your  home  and  hearth  ! ” 

The  Neapolitan  seemed  startled  by  an  earnestness  and  bold- 
ness he  was  but  little  prepared  for.  He  was  not,  however,  a 
man  easily  intimidated  or  deterred  from  any  purpose  he  had 
formed  ; and,  approaching  Viola,  he  was  about  to  reply  with 

* But  leave  mcy  ! solemnly  conjvre  thee,  Signor,  to  speaS  o£  wrath,  and  to  sin^ 
of  death. 


ZANONL 


167 


much  warmth,  real  or  affected,  when  a knock  was  heard  at  the 
door  of  the  chamber.  The  sound  was  repeated,  and  the  Prince, 
chafed  at  the  interruption,  opened  the  door  and  demanded, 
impatiently,  who  bad  ventured  to  disobey  his  orders,  and 
invade  his  leisure.  Mascari  presented  himself,  pale  and  agi- 
tated : “ My  lord,”  said  he,  in  a whisper,  “ pardon  me  ; but  a 
/Stranger  is  below,  who  insists  on  seeing  you ; and,  from  some 
words  he  let  fall,  I judged  it  advisable  even  to  infringe  youi 
commands.” 

“ A stranger  — and  at  this  hour ! What  business  can  he 
pretend  ? Why  was  he  even  admitted  ! ” 

“ He  asserts  that  your  life  is  in  imminent  danger.  The 
source  whence  it  proceeds  he  will  relate  to  your  Excellency 
alone.” 

The  Prince  frowned  ; but  his  color  changed.  He  mused  a 
moment,  and  then  re-entering  the  chamber,  and  advancing 
toward  Viola,  he  said — 

“ Believe  me,  fair  creature,  I have  no  wish  to  take  advan- 
tage of  my  power.  I would  fain  trust  alone  to  the  gentler 
authorities  of  affection.  Hold  yourself  queen  within  these 
walls  more  absolutely  than  you  have  ever  enacted  that  part  on 
the  stage.  To-night,  farewell ! May  your  sleep  be  calm,  and 
your  dreams  propitious  to  my  hopes.” 

With  these  words  he  retired,  and  in  a few  moments  Viola 
was  surrounded  by  officious  attendants,  whom  she  at  length, 
with  some  difficulty,  dismissed ; and  refusing  to  retire  to  rest, 
she  spent  the  night  in  examining  the  chamber,  which  she 
found  was  secured,  and  in  thoughts  of  Zanoni,  in  whose  power 
she  felt  an  almost  preternatural  confidence. 

Meanwhile,  the  Prince  descended  the  stairs,  and  sought  the 
room  into  which  the  stranger  had  been  shown. 

He  found  the  visitor  wrapped  from  head  to  foot  in  a long  robe 
— half-gown  half-mantle — such  as  was  sometimes  worn  by 
ecclesiastics.  The  face  of  this  stranger  was  remarkable.  So 
sunburnt  and  swarthy  were  his  hues,  that  he  must,  apparently, 
have  derived  his  origin  among  the  races  of  the  further  East. 
His  forehead  was  lofty,  and  his  eyes  so  penetrating,  yet  so 
calm  in  their  gaze,  that  the  Prince  shrunk  from  them  as  we 
shrink  from  a questioner  who  is  drawing  forth  the  guiltiest 
secret  of  our  hearts. 

“ What  would  you  with  me  ? ” asked  the  Prince,  motioning 
his  visitor  to  a seat, 

“ Prince  of ,”  said  the  stranger,  in  a voice  deep  and"^ 

sweety  but  foreign  in  its  accent  > “ son  of  the  most  energetic 


108 


ZANONI. 


and  masculine  race  that  ever  applied  god-like  genius  to  the 
service  of  Human  Will,  with  its  winding  wickedness  and  its 
stubborn  grandeur  ; descendant  of  the  great  Visconti,  in  whose 
chronicles  lies  the  History  of  Italy  in  her  palmy  day,  and  in 
whose  rise  was  the  development  of  the  mightiest  intellect, 
ripened  by  the  most  restless  ambition,  I come  to  gaze  upon 
the  last  star  in  a darkening  firmament.  By  this  hour  to-morrow, 
space  shall  know  it  not.  Man ! unless  thy  whole  nature  « 
change,  thy  days  are  numbered  ! ” 

“ What  means  this  jargon } ” said  the  Prince,  in  visible 
astonishment  and  secret  awe.  “ Comest  thou  to  menace  me 
in  my  own  halls,  or  wouldst  thou  warn  me  of  a danger?  Art 
thou  some  itinerant  mountebank,  or  some  unguessed-of  friend  ? 
Speak  out,  and  plainly.  What  danger  threatens  me  ? ” 

“ Zanoni  and  thy  ancestor’s  sword,”  replied  the  stranger. 

“ Ha  ! ha  ! ” said  the  Prince,  laughing  scornfully,  “ I half 
suspected  thee  from  the  first.  Thou  art  then  the  accomplice 
or  the  tool  of  that  most  dexterous,  but,  at  present,  defeated 
charlatan  ? And  I suppose  thou  wilt  tell  me  that,  if  I were 
to  release  a certain  captive  I have  made,  the  danger  would 
vanish,  and  the  hand  of  the  dial  would  be  put  back  ? ” 

“Judge  of  me  as  thou  wilt.  Prince  di — — . I confess 
my  knowledge  of  Zanoni.  Thou,  too,  wilt  know  his  power, 
but  not  till  it  consume  thee.  I would  save,  therefore  I warn 
thee.  Dost  thou  ask  me  why?  I will  tell  thee.  Canst  thou 
renember  to  have  heard  wild  tales  of  thy  grandsire  ? — of  his 
desire  for  a knowledge  that  passes  that  of  the  schools  and 
cloisters  ? — of  a strange  man  from  the  East,  who  was  his 
familiar  and  master  in  lore,  againsc  which  the  Vatican  has, 
from  age  to  age,  launched  its  mimic  thunder  ? Dost  thou 
call  to  mind  the  fortunes  of  thy  ancestor  i* — how  he  suc- 
ceeded in  youth  to  little  but  a name  ? — how,  after  a career 
wild  and  dissolute  as  thine,  he  disappeared  from  Milan,  a 
pauper,  and  a self-exile  ? — how  after  years  spent,  none  knew 
in  what  climes  or  in  what  pursuits,  he  again  revisited  the  city 
where  his  progenitors  had  reigned  ? — how  with  him  came  the 
wise  man  of  the  East,  the  mystic  Mejnour  ? — how  they  ho 
beheld  him,  beheld  with  amaze  and  fear  that  time  .lad 
plowed  no  furrow  on  his  brow  ; that  youth  seemed  fixed,  as 
by  a spell,  upon  his  face  and  form  ? Dost  thou  nev  know 
that  from  that  hour  his  fortunes  rose  ? Kinsmen  the  most 
remote  died  ; estate  upon  estate  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  . 
ruined  noble.  He  became  the  guide  of  princes,  the  first 
magnate  of  Italy,  He  founded  anew  th©  hons#  of  whieb 


ZANONL 


t6f 

thou  art  the  last  lineal  upholder,  and  transferred  his  splendoi 
from  Milan  to  the  Sicilian  realms.  Visions  of  high  ambition 
were  then  present  with  him  nightly  aj»d  daily.  Had  he  lived, 
Italy  would  have  known  a new  dynasty,  and  the  Visconti 
would  have  reigned  over  Magna-Graecia.  He  was  a man  such 
as  the  world  rarely  sees  ; but  his  ends,  too  earthly,  were  at 
war  with  the  means  he  sought.  Had  his  ambition  been  more 
or  less,  he  had  been  worthy  of  a realm  mightier  than  the 
Caesars  swayed  ; worthy  of  our  solemn  order  ; worthy  of  the 
fellowship  of  Mejnour,  whom  you  now  behold  before  you.” 
The  Prince,  who  had  listened  with  deep  and  breathless 
attention  to  the  words  of  his  singular  guest,  started  from  his 
seat  at  his  last  words.  “ Impostor  I ” he  cried,  “ can  you  dare 
thus  to  play  with  my  credulity  ? Sixty  years  have  flown  since 
my  grandsire  died  : were  he  living,  he  had  passed  his  hundred 
and  twentieth  year ; and  you,  whose  old  age  is  erect  and 
vigorous,  have  the  assurance  to  pretend  to  have  been  his 
contemporary  ! But  you  have  imperfectly  learned  your  tale. 
You  know  not,  it  seems,  that  my  grandsire,  wise  and  illustrious 
indeed,  in  all  save  his  faith  in  a charlatan,  was  found  dead  in 
his  bed,  in  the  very  hour  when  his  colossal  plans  were  ripe 
for  execution,  and  that  Mejnour  was  guilty  of  his  murder.” 

“ Alas  ! ” answered  the  stranger,  in  a voice  of  great  sadness 
had  he  but  listened  to  Mejnour,  had  he  but  delayed  the  last 
and  most  perilous  ordeal  of  daring  wisdom  until  the  requisite 
training  and  initiation  had  been  completed,  your  ancestor 
would  have  stood  with  me  upon  an  eminence  which  the 
waters  of  Death  itself  wash  everlastingly,  but  cannot  over- 
flow.  Your  grandsire  resisted  my  fervent  prayers,  disobeyed 
my  most  absolute  commands,  and  in  the  sublime  rashness  of 
a soul  that  panted  for  secrets,  which  he  who  desires  orbs  and 
scepters  never  can  obtairA,  perished  the  victim  of  his  own 
frenzy.” 

“ He  was  poisoned,  and  Mejnour  fled.” 

“ Meinour  fled  not,”  answered  the  stranger,  proudly ; 
Mejnour  could  not  fly  from  danger;  for,  to  him,  danger  is  a 
thing  long  left  behind.  It  was  the  day  before  the  duke  tock 
the  fatal  draught  which  he  believed  was  to  confer  on  the 
mortal  the  immortal  boon,  that  finding  my  power  over  him 
was  gone,  I abandoned  him  to  his  doom.  But  a truce  vitli 
this : I loved  your  grandsire  ! I would  save  the  last  of  his 
race.  Oppose  not  thyself  to  Zanoni.  Yield  not  thy  soul  to 
thine  evil  passions.  Draw  back  from  the  precipice  while 
♦Jiere  is  yet  time.  In^y, front,  and  in  thine  eyes,  I detect 


170 


ZANONI. 


some  of  that  diviner  glory  which  belonged  to  thy  race.  Thou 
hast  in  thee  some  germs  of  their  hereditary  genius,  but  they 
are  choked  up  by  worse  than  thy  hereditary  vices.  Recollect 
that  by  genius  thy  house  rose  ; by  vice  it  ever  failed  to  per- 
petuate its  power.  In  the  laws  which  regulate  the  Universe, 
it  is  decreed  that  nothing  wicked  can  long  endure.  Be  wise, 
and  let  history  warn  thee.  Thou  standest  on  the  verge  of 
two  worlds,  the  Past  and  the  Future  ; and  voices  from  either 
shriek  omen  in  thy  ear.  I have  done.  I bid  thee  fare- 
well ! ” 

“ Not  so ; thou  shalt  not  quit  these  walls.  I will  make 
experiment  of  thy  boasted  power.  What,  ho  there ! — 
ho ! ” 

The  Prince  shouted ; the  room  was  filled  with  his  minions. 

“ Seize  that  man  ! ” he  cried,  pointing  to  the  spot  which 
had  been  filled  by  the  form  of  Mejnour.  To  his  inconceiv- 
able amaze  and  horror,  the  spot  was  vacant.  The  mysterious 
stranger  had  vanished  like  a dream.  But  a thin  and  fragrant 
mist  undulated,  in  pale  volumes,  round  the  walls  of  the 
chamber.  “ Look  to  my  lord,”  cried  Mascari.  The  Prince 
had  fallen  to  the  floor  insensible.  For  many  hours  he  seemed 
in  a kind  of  trance.  When  he  recovered,  he  dismissed  his 
attendants,  and  his  step  was  heard  in  his  chamber,  pacing  to 
and  fro,  with  heavy  and  disordered  strides.  Not  till  an  hour 
before  his  banquet  the  next  day  did  he  seem  restored  to  his 
wonted  self. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

Oime  f come  poss’  io 

Altri  trovar,  se  me  trovar  non  posso.* 

Amint.,  At  i.  Sc.  u. 

The  sleep  of  Glyndon,  the  night  after  his  last  interview 
with  Zanoni,  was  unusually  profound  ; and  the  sun  streamed 
full  upon  his  eyes,  as  he  opened  them  to  the  day.  He  rose 
refreshed,  and  with  a strange  sentiment  of  calmness,  that 
seemed  more  the  result  of  resolution  than  exhaustion.  The 
incidents  and  emotions  of  the  past  night  had  settled  into 
distinct  and  clear  impressions.  He  thought  of  them  but 
slightly — he  thought  rather  of  the  future.  He  was  as  one  of 
the  initiated  in  the  old  Egyptian  mysteries,  who  have  crossed 
the  gate  only  to  long  more  ardently  for  the  penetralia. 

*Alas  ! how  can  I find  another  when  I cannot  find  myself  ? 


ZANOm. 


171 


He  dressed  himself,  and  was  relieved  to  find  that  Mervale 
had  joined  a party  of  his  countrymen  on  an  excursion  to 
Ischia,  He  spent  the  heat  of  noon  in  thoughtful  solitude, 
and  gradually  the  image  of  Viola  returned  to  his  heart.  It 
was  a holy — for  it  was  a human — image.  He  had  resigned 
her  ; and  though  he  repented  not,  he  was  troubled  at  the 
thought  that  repentance  would  have  come  too  late. 

He  started  impatiently  from  his  seat,  and  strode  with  rapid 
steps  to  the  humble  abode  of  the  actress. 

The  distance  was  considerable,  and  the  air  oppressive. 
Glyndon  arrived  at  the  door  breathless  and  heated.  He 
knocked  ; no  answer  came.  He  lifted  the  latch  and  entered. 
He  ascended  the  stairs  : no  sound,  no  sight  of  life  met  his 
ear  and  eye.  In  the  front  chamber,  on  a table,  lay  the  guitar 
of  the  actress  and  some  manuscript  parts  in  the  favorite 
operas.  He  paused,  and  summoning  courage,  tapped  at  the 
door  which  seemed  to  lead  into  the  inner  apartment.  The 
door  was  ajar ; and,  hearing  no  sound  within,  he  pushed  it 
open.  It  was  the  sleeping  chamber  of  the  young  actress,  that 
holiest  ground  to  a lover ; and  well  did  the  place  become  the 
presiding  deity  ; none  of  the  tawdry  finery  of  the  profession 
was  visible,  on  the  one  hand  ; none  of  the  slovenly  disorder 
common  to  the  humbler  classes  of  the  south,  on  the  other. 
All  was  pure  and  simple  : even  the  ornaments  were  those  of 
an  innocent  refinement ; a few  books,  placed  carefully  on 
shelves,  a few  half-faded  flowers  in  an  earthen  vase,  which 
was  modeled  and  painted  in  the  Etruscan  fashion.  The 
sunlight  streamed  over  the  snowy  draperies  of  the  bed,  and  a 
few  articles  of  clothing  on  the  chair  beside  it.  Viola  was  not 
there  ; but  the  nurse  I — was  she  gone  also  ? He  made  the 
house  resound  with  the  name  of  Gionetta,  but  there  was  not 
even  an  echo  to  reply.  At  last,  as  he  reluctantly  quitted  the 
desolate  abode,  he  perceived  Gionetta  coming  toward  him 
from  the  street.  The  poor  old  woman  uttered  an  exclamation 
of  joy  on  seeing  him  ; but  to  their  mutual  disappointment, 
neither  had  any  cheerful  tidings  or  satisfactory  explanation 
to  afford  the  other.  Gionetta  had  been  aroused  from  her 
slumber  the  night  before  by  the  noise  in  the  rooms  below , 
but,  ere  she  could  muster  courage  to  descend,  Viola  was 
gone  ! She  found  the  marks  of  violence  on  the  door  without ; 
and  all  she  had  been  able  to  learn  in  the  neighborhood,  was, 
that  a Lazzarone,  from  his  nocturnal  resting-place  on  the 
Chiaja,  had  seen  by  the  moon-light  a carria-ge,  which  he 
recognized  as  belonging  to  the  Prince^fi pass  and  repass 


17* 


ZANOm. 


that  road  the  first  hour  of  morning.  Glyndon,  on  gathering; 
from  the  confused  words  and  broken  sobs  of  the  old  nurse, 
the  heads  of  this  account,  abruptly  left  her,  and  repaired  to 
the  palace  of  Zanoni.  There  he  was  informed  that  the 

Signor  was  gone  to  the  banquet  of  the  Prince  di , and 

would  not  return  till  late.  Glyndon  stood  motionless  with 
perplexity  and  dismay  ; he  knew  not  what  to  believe,  or  how 
to  act.  Even  Mervale  was  not  at  hand  to  advise  him.  His 
conscience  smote  him  bitterly.  He  had  had  the  power  to 
save  the  woman  he  had  loved,  and  had  foregone  that  power ; 
but  how  was  it  that  in  this  Zanoni  himself  had  failed  ? How 
was  it  that  he  was  gone. to  the  very  banquet  of  the  ravisher  ? 
Could  Zanoni  be  aware  of  what  had  passed  ? If  not,  should 
he  lose  a moment  in  apprising  him  ? Though  mentally 
irresolute,  no  man  was  more  physically  brave.  He  would 
repair  at  once  to  the  palace  of  the  Prince  himself ; and  if 
Zanoni  failed  in  the  trust  he  had  half  appeared  to  arrogate, 
he,  the  humble  foreigner,  would  demand  the  captive  of  fraud 
and  force,  in  the  very  halls  and  before  the  assembled  guests 
of  the  Prince  di . 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

Ardua  vallatur  duris  sapientia  scrupis.* 

Hadr.  Jun.,  Emblem,  xxxvii. 

We  must  go  back  some  hours  in  the  progress  of  this  narra- 
tive. It  was  the  first  faint  and  gradual  break  of  the  summer 
dawn  ; and  two  men  stood  in  a balcony  overhanging  a garden 
fragrant  with  the  scents  of  the  awakening  flowers.  The  stars 
had  not  yet  left  the  sky — the  birds  were  yet  silent  on  the 
boughs  ; all  was  still,  hushed,  and  tranquil ; but  how  different 
the  tranquillity  of  reviving  day  from  the  solemn  repose  of 
night ! In  the  music  of  silence  there  are  a thousand  variations. 
These  men,  who  alone  seemed  awake  in  Naples,  were  Zanom 
and  the  mysterious  stranger,  who  had  but  an  hour  or  two  ago 
startled  the  Prince  di in  his  voluptuous  palace. 

“ No,”  said  the  latter ; “hadst  thou  delayed  the  acceptance 
of  the  Arch-Gift  until  thou  hadst  attained  to  the  years,  and 
passed  through  all  the  desolate  bereavements  that  chilled  and 
seared  myself,  ere  my  researches  had  made  it  mine, — thou 
wouldst  have  escaped  the  curse  of  which  thou  complainest 

* Lofty  wisdom  is  circled  round  with  rugged  rocks. 


ZANOm. 


173 


now,  thou  wouldst  not  have  mourned  over  the  brevity  of 
human  affection  as  compared  to  the  duration  of  thine  own 
existence  ; for  thou  wouldst  have  survived  the  very  desire  and 
dream  of  the  love  of  woman.  Brightest,  and,  but  for  that 
error,  perhaps  the  loftiest,  of  the  secret  and  solemn  race  that 
fills  up  the  interval  in  creation  between  mankind  and  the 
children  of  the  Empyreal,  age  after  age  wilt  thou  rue  the 
splendid  folly  which  made  thee  ask  to  carry  the  beauty  and 
the  passions  of  youth  into  the  dreary  grandeur  of  earthly 
immortality.” 

“ I do  not  repent,  nor  shall  I,”  answered  Zanoni.  “ The 
transport  and  the  sorrow,  so  wildly  blended,  which  have  at 
intervals  diversified  my  doom,  are  better  than  the  calm 
and  bloodless  tenor  of  thy  solitary  way.  Thou,  v/ho  lovest 
nothing,  hatest  nothing,  feelest  nothing,  and  walkest  the 
world  with  the  noiseless  and  joyless  footsteps  of  a dream  ! ” 

“ You  mistake,”  replied  he  who  had  owned  the  name  of 
Mejnour, — “ though  I care  not  for  love,  and  am  dead  to 
every  passion  that  agitates  the  sons  of  clay,  I am  not  dead  to 
their  more  serene  enjoyments.  I carry  down  the  stream  of 
the  countless  j^ears,  not  the  turbulent  desires  of  youth,  but  the 
calm  and  spiritual  delights  of  age.  Wisely  and  deliberately 
J abandoned  youth  forever  when  I separated  my  lot  from 
r^en.  Let  us  not  envy  or  reproach  each  other.  I would 
Hive  saved  this  Neapolitan,  Zanoni  (since  so  it  now  pleases  thee 

be  called), — partly  because  his  grandsire  was  but  divided 
by  the  last  airy  barrier  from  our  own  brotherhood — =3partly 
because  I know  that  in  the  man  himself  lurk  the  elements  of 
ancestral  courage  and  power,  which  in  earlier  life  would  ^liave 
fitted  him  for  one  of  us.  Earth  holds  but  few  to  whom 
nature  has  given  the  qualities  that  can  bear  the  ordeal  ! 
But  time  and  excess,  that  have  thickened  his  grosser  senses, 
have  blunted  his  imagination.  I relinquish  him  to  his 
doom.” 

“And  still  then,  Mejnour,  you  cherish  the  desire  to  revive 
our  order,  limited  now  to  ourselves  alone,  by  new  converts 
and  allies.  Surel}^ — surely — rthy  experience  might  have 

taught  thee,  that  scarcely  once  in  a thousand  years  is  born  the 
being  who  can  pass  through  the  horrible  gates  that  lead 
into  the  worlds  without ! Is  not  thy  path  already  strewed 
with  thy  victims  ? Do  not  their  ghastly  faces  of  agony  and 
fear — the  blood-stained  suicide,  the  raving  maniac — rise 
before  thee,  and  warn  what  is  yet  left  to  thee  of  human 
sympathy  from  thy  insane  ambition  ? ” 


174 


ZANOm, 


“Nay,”  answered  Mejnour;  “have  I not  had  success  to 
counterbalance  failure  ? And  can  I forego  this  lofty  and 
august  hope,  worthy  alone  of  our  high  condition — the  hope 
to  form  a mighty  and  numerous  race  with  a force  and  power 
sufficient  to  permit  them  to  acknowledge  to  mankind  their 
majestic  conquests  and  dominion — to  become  the  true  lords 
of  this  planet,  invaders,  perchance,  of  others, — masters  of  the 
inimical  and  malignant  tribes  by  which  at  this  moment  we  are 
surrounded, — a race  that  may  proceed,  in  their  deathless 
destinies,  from  stage  to  stage  of  celestial  glory,  and  rank  at 
last  among  the  nearest  ministrants  and  agents  gathered 
round  the  Throne  of  Thrones  ? What  matter  a thousand 
victims  for  one  convert  to  our  band  ? And  you,  Zanoni,” 
continued  Mejnour,  after  a pause— “you,  even  you,  should 
this  affection  for  a mortal  beauty  that  you  have  dared,  despite 
yourself,  to  cherish,  be  more  than  a passing  fancy — should  it, 
once  admitted  into  your  inmost  nature,  partake  of  its  bright 
and  enduring  essence — even  you  may  brave  all  things  to  raise 
the  beloved  one  into  your  equal.  Nay,  interrupt  me  not. 
Can  you  see  sickness  menace  her — danger  hover  around — 
years  creep  on — the  eyes  grow  dim — the  beauty  fade — while 
the  heart,  youthful  still,  clings  and  fastens  round  your  own, — 
can  you  see  this,  and  know  it  is  yours  to ” 

“ Cease ! ” cried  Zanoni,  fiercely.  “ What  is  all  other  fate 
as  compared  to  the  death  of  terror  ? What,  when  the  coldest 
sage — the  most  heated  enthusiast — the  hardiest  warrior,  with 
his  nerves  of  iron — ^liave  been  found  dead  in  their  beds,  with 
straining  eyeballs  and  horrent  hair,  at  the  first  step  of  the 
Dread  Progress, — thinkest  thou  that  this  weak  woman — from 
whose  cheek  a sound  at  the  window,  the  screech  of  the  night- 
owl,  the  sight  of  a drop  of  blood  on  a man’s  sword,  would 

start  the  color — could  brave  one  glance  of Away  ! — the 

very  thought  of  such  sights  for  her  makes  even  myself  a 
coward ! ” 

“ When  you  told  her  you  loved  her — when  you  clasped  her 
to  your  breast,  you  renounced  all  power  to  foresee  her  future 
lot,  or  protect  her  from  harm.  Henceforth  to  her  you  are 
human,  and  human  only.  How  know  you,  then,  to  what  you 
may  be  tempted  ! — ^how  know  you  what  her  curiosity  may 
learn  and  her  courage  brave  ? But  enough  of  this — you  are 
bent  on  your  pursuit  ? ” 

“ The  fiat  has  gone  forth.” 

• “ And  to-morrow  ? ” 

“ To-morrow  at  this  hour  our  bark  will  be  bounding  over 


ZANOm. 


175 


yonder  ocean,  and  the  weight  of  ages  will  have  fallen  from 
my  heart  ! I compassionate  thee,  O foolish  sage, — thou  hast 
given  up  thy  youth ! ” 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


Alch.  Thou  always  speakest  riddles.  Tell  me  if  thou  art  that  fountain  ol 
which  Bernard  Lord  Trevizan  writ  ? 

Merck.  I am  not  that  fountain,  but  I am  the  water.  The  fountain  compasseth 
me  about. 


Sandivogius,  New  Light  of  Alchemy. 


The  Prince  di was  not  a man  whom  Naples  could 

suppose  to  be  addicted  to  superstitious  fancies.  Still,  in  the 
south  of  Italy,  there  was  then,  and  there  still  lingers,  a certain 
spirit  of  credulity,  which  may,  ever  and  anon,  be  visible 
amid  the  boldest  dogmas  of  their  philosophers  and  skeptics. 
In  his  childhood,  the  Prince  had  learned  strange  tales  of  the 
ambition,  the  genius,  and  the  career  of  his  grandsire, — and 
secretly,  perhaps  influenced  by  ancestral  example,  in  earlier 
youth  he  himself  had  followed  science,  not  only  through  her 
legitimate  course,  but  her  antiquated  and  erratic  windings.  I 
have,  indeed,  been  shown  in  Naples  a little  volume,  blazoned 
with  the  arms  of  the  Visconti,  and  ascribed  to  the  nobleman 
I refer  to,  which  treats  of  alchemy  in  a'spirit  half-mocking 
and  half-reverential. 

Pleasure  soon  distracted  him  from  such  speculations,  and 
his  talents,  which  were  unquestionably  great,  were  wholly 
perverted  to  extravagant  intrigues,  or  to  the  embellishment 
of  a gorgeous  ostentation  with  something  of  a classic  grace. 
His  immense  wealth,  his  imperious  pride,  his  unscrupulous 
and  daring  character,  made  him  an  object  of  no  inconsiderable 
fear  to  a feeble  and  timid  court ; and  the  ministers  of  the 
indolent  government  willingly  connived  at  excesses  which 
allured  him  at  least  from  ambition.  The  strange  visit,  and 
yet  more  strange  departure,  of  Mejnour,  filled  the  breast  of 
the  Neapolitan  with  awe  and  wonder,  against  which  all  the 
haughty  arrogance  and  learned  skepticism  of  his  maturer 
manhood  combated  in  vain.  The  apparition  of  Mejnour 
served,  indeed,  to  invest  Zanoni  with  a character  in  which 
-the  Prince  had  not  hitherto  regarded  him.  He  felt  a strange 
alajm  at  the  rival  he  had  braved — at  the  foe  he  had  provoked. 
When,  a little  before  his  banquet,  he  had  resumed  his  self- 
possession,  it  was  with  a fell  and  gloomy  resolution  that  he 


176 


ZAIfONf. 


brooded  over  the  perfidious  schemes  he  had  previously 
formed.  He  felt  as  if  the  death  of  the  mysterious  Zanoni  were 
necessary  for  the  preservation  of  his  own  life ; and  if  at  an 
earlier  period  of  their  rivalry  he  had  determined  on  the  fate 
of  Zanoni,  the  warnings  of  Mejnour  only  served  to  confirm 
his  resolve. 

“ We  will  try  if  his  magic  can  invent  an  antidote  to  the 
bane,”  said  he,  half  aloud,  and  wjth  a stern  smile,  as  he 
summoned  Mascari  to  his  presence.  The  poison  which  the 
Prince,  with  his  own  hands,  mixed  into  the  wine  intended  for 
his  guest,  was  compounded  from  materials,  the  secret  of 
which  had  been  one  of  the  proudest  heir-looms  of  that  able 
and  evil  race  which  gave  to  Italy  her  wisest  and  guilt- 
iest tyrants.  Its  operation  was  quick,  yet  not  sudden— it 
produced  no  pain — it  left  on  the  form  no  grim  convulsion, 
on  the  skin  no  purpling  spot,  to  arouse  suspicion, — you  might 
have  cut  and  carved  every  membrane  and  fiber  of  the  corpse, 
but  the  sharpest  eyes  of  the  leech  would  not  have  detected  the 
presence  of  the  subtle  life-queller.  For  twelve  hours  the  victim 
felt  nothing,  save  a joyous  and  elated  exhilaration  of  the  blood ; 
a delicious  languor  followed,  the  sure  forerunner  of  apoplexy. 
No  lancet  then  could  save.  Apoplexy  had  run  much  in  the 
families  of  the  enemies  of  the  Visconti ! 

The  hour  of  the  feast  arrived — the  guests  assembled. 
There  were  the  flower  of  the  Neapolitan  seignorie,  the  descend- 
ants of  the  Norman,  the  Teuton,  the  Goth;  for  Naples  had 
then  a nobility,  but  derived  it  from  the  North,  which  has 
indeed  been  the  Nutrix  Leonum^  the  nurse  of  the  lion-hearted 
chivalry  of  the  world. 

Last  of  the  guests  came  Zanoni  ; and  the  crowd  gave  way 
as  the  dazzling  foreigner  moved  along  to  the  lord  of  the 
palace.  The  Prince  greeted  him  with  a meaning  smile,  to 
which  Zanoni  answered  by  a whisper — “ He  who  plays  with 
loaded  dice  does  not  always  win.” 

The  Prince  bit  his  lip,  and  Zanoni,  passing  on,  seemed 
deep  in  conversation  with  the  fawning  Mascari. 

“Who  is  the  Prince’s  heir?”  asked  the  guest. ^ 

“ A distant  relation  on  the  mother’s  side  ; with  his  Excel- 
lency dies  the  male  line.” 

“ Is  the  heir  present  at  our  host’s  banquet  ? ” 

“ No^:  they  are  not  friends.” 

“No  matter  : he  will  be  here  to-morrow  ! ” 

Mascari  stared  in  surprise  ; but  the  signal  for  the  banquei 
was  given,  and  the  guests  were  marshaled  to  the  board.  A*» 


ZANOm, 


177 


was  the  custom  then,  the  feast  took  place  not  long  after  mid- 
day. It  was  a long  oval  hall,  the  whole  of  one  side  opening 
by  a marble  colonnade  upon'^a  court  or  garden,  in  which  the 
eye  rested  gratefully  upon  cool  fountains  and  statues  of 
whitest  marble,  half-sheltered  by  orange  trees.  Every  art 
that  luxury  could  invent  to  give  freshness  and  coolness  to 
the  languid  and  breezeless  heat  of  the  day  without  (a  day  on 
which  the  breath  of  the  sirocco  was  abroad)  had  been  called 
into  existence.  Artificial  currents  of  air  through  invisible 
tubes,  silken  blinds  waving  to  and  fro,  as  if  to  cheat  the  senses 
into  the  belief  of  an  April  wind,  and  miniature  jets  d'eau 
in  each  corner  of  the  apartment,  gave  to  the  Italians  the  same 
sense  of  exhilaration  and  comfort  (if  I may  use  the  word) 
which  the  well-drawn  curtains  and  the  blazing  hearth  afford 
to  the  children  of  colder  climes. 

The  conversation  was  somewhat  more  lively  and  intellect- 
ual than  is  common  among  the  languid  pleasure-hunters  of 
the  South ; for  the  Prince,  himself  accomplished,  sought  his 
acquaintance  not  only  among  the  beaux  esprits  of  his  own 
country,  but  among  the  gay  foreigners  who  adorned  and  re- 
lieved the  monotony  of  the  Neapolitan  circles.  There  were 
present  two  or  three  of  the  brilliant  Frenchmen  of  the  old 
regime^  who  had  already  emigrated  from  the  advancing  revo- 
lution ; and  their  peculiar  turn  of  thought  and  wit  was  well 
calculated  for  the  meridian  of  a society  that  made  the  Dolce 
far  niente  at  once  its  philosophy  and  its  faith.  The  Prince, 
however,  was  more  silent  than  usual ; and  when  he  sought  to 
rouse  himself,  his  spirits  were  forced  and  exaggerated.  To 
the  manners  of  his  host,  those  of  Zanoni  afforded  a striking 
contrast.  The  bearing  of  this  singular  person  was  at  all 
times  characterized  by  a calm  and  polished  ease,  which  was 
attributed  by  the  courtiers  to  the  long  habit  of  society.  He 
could  scarcely  be  called  gay : yet  few  persons  more  tended  to 
animate  the  general  spirits  of  a convivial  circle.  He  seemed, 
by  a kind  of  intuition,  to  elicit  from  each  companion  the 
qualities  in  which  he  most  excelled ; and  if  occasionally  a 
certain  tone  of  latent  mockery  characterized  his  remarks 
upon  the  topics  on  which  the  conversation  fell,  it  appeared  to 
men  who  took  nothing  in  earnest  to  be  the  language  both  of 
wit  and  wisdom.  To  the  Frenchmen,  in  particular,  there  was 
something  startling  in  his  intimate  knowledge  of  the  minutest 
events  in  their  own  capital  and  country,  and  his  profound 
penetration  (evinced  but  in  epigrams  and  sarcasms)  into  the 
eminent  characters  who  were  then  playing  a part  upon  the 
1 j ' 


178  ZANONT. 

great  stage  of  Continental  intrigue.  It  was  while  this  con 
versation  grew  animated,  and  the  feast  was  at  its  height,  that 
Glyndon  arrived  at  the  palace.  The  porter,  perceiving  by 
his  dress  that  he  was  not  one  of  the  invited  guests,  told  him 
that  his  Excellency  was  engaged,  and  on  no  account  could  be 
disturbed;  and  Glyndon  then,  for  the  first  time,  became 
aware  how  strange  and  embarrassing  was  the  duty  he  had 
taken  on  himself.  To  force  an  entrance  into  the  banquet- 
hall  of  a great  and  powerful  noble,  surrounded  by  the  rank 
of  Naples,  and  to  arraign  him  for  what  to  his  boon  compan- 
ions would  appear  but  an  act  of  gallantry,  w'as  an  exploit 
that  could  not  fail  to  be  at  once  ludicrous  and  impotent.  He 
mused  a moment ; and  slipping  a piece  of  gold  into  the  por 
ter’s  hand,  said  that  he  was  commissioned  to  seek  the  Signor 
Zanoni  upon  an  errand  of  life  and  death  ; and  easily  won  his 
way  across  the  court,  and  into  the  interior  building.  He 
passed  up  the  broad  staircase,  and  the  voices  and  merriment 
of  the  revelers  smote  his  ear  at  a distance.  At  the  entrance 
of  the  reception-rooms  he  found  a page,  whom  he  dispatched 
with  a message  to  Zanoni.  The  page  did  the  errand  ; and 
Zanoni,  on  hearing  the  whispered  name  of  Glyndon,  turned 
to  his  host. 

“ Pardon  me,  my  lord  ; an  English  friend  of  mine,  the 
Signor  Glyndon  (not  unknown  by  name  to  your  Excellency) 
waits  without — the  business  must  indeed  be  urgent  on  which 
he  has  sought  me  in  such  an  hour.  You  will  forgive  my 
momentary  absence.” 

“ Nay,  Signor,”  answered  the  Prince,  courteously,  but  with 
a sinister  smile  on  his  countenance,  would  it  not  be  better 
for  your  friend  to  join  us  ? An  Englishman  is  welcome  every- 
where ; and  even  were  he  a Dutchman,  your  friendship  would 
invest  his  presence  vdth  attraction.  Pray  his  attendance, — 
we  would  not  spare  you  even  for  a moment.” 

Zanoni  bowed — the  page  was  dispatched  with  all  flattering 
messages  to  Glyndon — a seat  next  to  Zanoni  was  placed  for 
him,  and  the  young  Englishman  entered. 

“ You  are  most  welcome,  sir.  I trust  your  business  to  our 
illustrious  guest  is  of  good  omen  and  pleasant  import.  If  you 
bring  evil  news,  defer  it,  I pray  you.” 

Glyndon’s  brow  was  sullen  ; and  he  was  about  to  startle  the 
guests  by  his  reply,  when  Zanoni,  touching  his  arm  significant- 
ly, whispered  in  English — “ I know  why  you  have  sought  me. 
^ silent,  and  witness  what  ensues.” 


ZANONL 


179 


know  then  that  Viola,  whom  you  boasted  you  had  the 

power  to  save  from  danger 

“ In  this  house  ! — yes.  I know  also  that  Murder  sits  at 
the  right  hand  of  our  host.  But  his  fate  is  now  separated  from 
hers  forever ; and  the  mirror  which  glasses  it  to  my  eye  is 
clear  through  the  streams  of  blood.  Be  still,  and  learn  the 
fate  that  awaits  the  wicked ! 

“ My  lord,”  said  Zanoni,  speaking  aloud,  “ the  Signor 
Glyndon  has  indeed  brought  me  tidings  not  wholly  unexpected. 
I am  compelled  to  leave  Naples — an  additional  motive  to 
make  the  most  of  the  present  hour.” 

“ And  what,  if  I may  venture  to  ask,  may  be  the  cause  that 
brings  such  affliction  on  the  fair  dames  of  Naples  ? ” 

“ It  is  the  approaching  death  of  one  who  honored  me  with 
most  loyal  friendship,”  replied  Zanoni,  gravely.  Let  us  not 
speak  of  it ; grief  cannot  put  back  the  dial.  As  we  supply  by 
new  flowers  those  that  fade  in  our  vases,  so  it  is  the  secret  of 
worldly  wisdom  to  replace  by  fresh  friendships  those  that  fade 
from  our  path.” 

“ True  philosophy  I ” exclaimed  the  Prince.  “ ‘ JVot  to  ad- 
mire,' was  the  Roman’s  maxim  ; ‘ Never  to  mourn^  is  mine. 
There  is  nothing  in  life  to  grieve  for,  save  indeed,  Signor  Zanoni, 
when  some  young  beauty  on  whom  we  have  set  our  hearts, 
slips  from  our  grasp.  In  such  a moment  we  have  need  of  all 
our  wisdom,  not  to  succumb  to  despair,  and  shake  hands  with 
death.  What  say  you,  Signor  ? You  smile  ! Such  never  could 
be  your  lot.  Ple%e  me  in  a sentiment— ‘ Long  life  to  the 
fortunate  lover — a quick  release  to  the  baffled  suitor ! ’ ” 

“ I pledge  you,”  said  Zanoni ; and  as  the  fatal  wine  was 
poured  into  his  glass,  he  repeated,  fixing  his  eyes  on  the  Prince, 
“ I pledge  you  even  in  this  wine  ! ” 

He  lifted  the  glass  to  his  lips.  The  Prince  seemed  ghastly 
pale,  while  the  gaze  of  his  guest  bent  upon  him,  with  an  in- 
tent and  stern  brightness,  beneath  which  the  conscience- 
stricken  host  cowered  and  quailed  Not  till  he  had  drained 
the  draught,  and  replaced  the  glass  upon  the  board,  did  Zanoni 
turn  his  eyes  from  the  Prince ; and  he  then  said,  “Your  wine 
has  been  kept  too  long;  it  has  lost  its  virtues.  It  might  dis- 
agree with  many,  but  do  not  fear  ; it  will  not  harm  me.  Prince. 
Signor  Mascari,  you  are  a judge  of  the  gr^pe ; will  you  favqr 
us  with  your  opinion  ? ” 

“ Nay,”  answered  Mascari,  with  well-affected  composure, 
“ I like  not  the  wines  of  Cyprus ; they  are  heating.  Perhaps 


ZANONL 


i8o 

Signor  Glyndon  may  not  have  the  same  distaste  ? The  English 
are  said  to  love  their  potations  warm  and  pungent.” 

“ Do  you  wish  my  friend  also  to  taste  the  wine,  Prince  ? ” 
said  Zanoni.  “ Recollect,  all  cannot  drink  it  with  the  same 
impunity  as  myself.” 

“ No,”  said  the  Prince,  hastily ; “ if  you  do  not  recommend 
the  wine,  Heaven  forbid  that  we  should  constrain  our  guests  ! 
My  Lord  Duke,”  turning  to  one  of  the  Frenchmen,  “yours  is 
the  true  soil  of  Bacchus.  What  think  you  of  this  cask  from 
Burgundy  ? Has  it  borne  the  journey  ? ” 

“ Ah,”  said  Zanoni,  “ let  us  change  both  the  wine  and  the 
theme.” 

With  that,  Zanoni  grew  more  animated  and  brilliant. 
Never  did  wit  more  sparkling,  airy,  exhilarating,  flash  from 
the  lips  of  reveler.  His  spirits  fascinated  all  present — even 
the  Prince  himself,  even  Glyndon — with  a strange  and  wild 
contagion.  The  former,  indeed,  whom  the  words  and  gaze 
of  Zanoni,  when  he  drained  the  poison,  had  filled  with  fear- 
ful misgivings,  now  hailed  in  the  brilliant  eloquence  of  his 
wit,  a certain  sign  of  the  operation  of  the  bane.  The  wine 
circulated  fast ; but  none  seemed  conscious  of  its  effects. 
One  by  one  the  rest  of  the  party  fell  into  a charmed  and  spell- 
bound silence,  as  Zanoni  continued  to  pour  forth  sally  upon 
sally,  tale  upon  tale.  They  hung  on  his  words,  they  almost 
held  their  breath  to  listen.  Yet,  how  bitter  was  his  mirth  !— 
how  full  of  contempt  for  the  triflers  present,  afid  for  the  tri 
fles  which  made  their  life  ! 

Night  came  on ; the  room  grew  dim,  and  the  feast  had  lasted 
several  hours  longer  than  was  the  customary  duration  of  sim- 
ilar entertainments  at  that  day.  Still  the  guests  stirred  not, 
and  still  Zanoni  continued,  with  glittering  eye  and  mocking 
lip,  to  lavish  his  stores  of  intellect  and  anecdote ; when  sud- 
denly the  moon  rose,  and  shed  its  rays  over  the  flowers  and 
fountains  in  the  court  without,  leaving  the  room  itself  half 
in  shadow  and  half  tinged  by  a quiet  and  ghostly  light. 

It  was  then  that  Zanoni  rose.  “ Well,  gentlemen,”  said  he, 
“ w^e  have  not  yet  wearied  our  host,  I hope ; and  his  garden 
offers  a new  temptation  to  protract  our  stay.  Have  you  no 
musicians  among  your  train.  Prince,  that  might  regale  our 
ears  while  we  inhale  the  fragrance  of  your  orange-trees  ? ” 

“ An  excellent  thought ! ” said  the  Prince.  “ Mascari,  see 
so  the  music.” 

The  party  rose  simultaneously  to  adjourn  to  the  garden  ; 


ZANONI. 


i8i 


and  then,  for  the  first  time,  the  effect  of  the  wine  they  had 
drunk  seemed  to  make  itself  felt. 

With  flushed  cheeks  and  unsteady  steps  they  came  into  the 
open  air,  which  tended  yet  more  to  stimulate  that  glowing 
fever  of  the  grape.  As  if  to  make  up  for  the  silence  with 
which  the  guests  had  hitherto  listened  to  Zanoni,  every  tongue 
tvas  now  loosened — every  man  talked,  no  man  listened.  There 
was  something  wild  and  fearful  in  the  contrast  between  the 
calm  beauty  of  the  night  and  scene,  and  the  hubbub  and 
clamor  of  these  disorderly  roisters.  One  of  the  Frenchmen, 

in  especial,  the  young  Due  de  R , a nobleman  of  the 

highest  rank,  and  of  all  the  quick,  vivacious,  and  irascible 
temperament  of  his  countrymen,  was  particularly  noisy  and 
excited.  And  as  circumstances,  the  remembrance  of  which  is 
still  preserved  among  certain  circles  of  Naples,  rendered  it 
afterward  necessary  that  the  Due  should  himself  give  evi- 
dence of  what  occurred,  I will  here  translate  the  short  account 
he  drew  up,  and  which  was  kindly  submitted  to  me  some  few 
years  ago  by  my  accomplished  and  lively  friend,  II  Cavaliere 
di  B . 

r 

“ I never  remember,**  writes  the  Due,  “ to  have  felt  my 
spirits  so  excited  as  on  that  evening ; we  were  like  so  many 
boys  released  from  school,  jostling  each  other  as  we  reeled  or 
ran  down  the  flight  of  seven  or  eight  stairs  that  led  from  the 
colonnade  into  the  garden, — some  laughing,  some  whooping, 
some  scolding,  some  babbling.  The  wine  had  brought  out. 
as  it  were,  eaeffman’s  inmost  character.  Some  were  loud  and 
quarrelsome,  others  sentimental  and  whining;  some  whom  we 
had  hitherto  thought  dull,  most  mirthful ; some  whom  we  had 
ever  regarded  as  discreet  and  taciturn,  most  garrulous  and  up- 
roarious. I remember  that  in  the  midst  of  our  clamorous  gayety, 
my  eye  fell  upon  the  cavalier  Signor  Zanoni,  whose  conversation 
had  so  enchanted  us  all ; and  I felt  a certain  chill  come  over  me 
to  perceive  that  he  wore  the  same  calm  and  unsympathizing 
smile  upon  his  countenance  which  had  characterized  it  in  his 
singular  and  curious  stories  of  the  court  of  Louis  XIV.  I 
felt,  indeed,  half-inclined  to  seek  a quarrel  with  one  whose 
composure  was  almost' an  insult  to  our  disorder.  Nor  was 
such  an  effect  of  this  irritating  and  mocking  tranquillity  con- 
fined to  myself  alone.  Several  of  the  party  have  told  me 
since,  that,  on  looking  at  Zanoni,  they  felt  their  blood  yet 
more  heated,  and  gayety  change  to  resentment.  There  seemed 
in  his  icy  smile  a very  charm  to  wound  vanity  and  provoke 


i82 


ZANONI. 


rage.  It  was  at  this  moment  that  the  Prince  came  up  to  me, 
and,  passing  his  arm  into  mine,  led  me  a little  apart  from  the 
rest.  He  had  certainly  indulged  in  the  same  excess  as  our- 
selves, but  it  did  not  produce  the  same  effect  of  noisy  excite- 
ment. There  was,  on  the  contrary,  a certain  cold  arrogance 
and  supercilious  scorn  in  his  bearing  and  language,  which, 
even  while  affecting  so  much  caressing  courtesy  toward  me, 
roused  my  self-love  against  him.  He  seemed  as  if  Zanoni 
had  infected  him ; and  in  imitating  the  manner  of  his  guest, 
he  surpassed  the  original.  He  rallied  me  on  some  court 
gossip,  which  had  honored  my  name  by  associating  it  with  a 
certain  beautiful  and  distinguished  Sicilian  lady,  and  affected 
to  treat  with  contempt  that  which,  had  it  been  true,  I should 
have  regarded  as  a boast.  He  spoke,  indeed,  as  if  he  himself 
had  gathered  all  the  flowers  of  Naples,  and  left  us  foreigners 
only  the  gleanings  he  had  scorned.  At  this,  my  natural  and 
national  gallantry  was  piqued,  and  I retorted  by  some  sar- 
casms that  I should  certainly  have  spared  had  my  blood  been 
cooler.  He  laughed  heartily,  and  left  me  in  a strange  fit  of 
resentment  and  anger.  Perhaps  (I  must  own  the  truth)  the 
wine  had  produced  in  me  a wild  disposition  to  take  offense 
and  provoke  quarrel.  As  the  Prince  left  me,  I turned,  and  saw 
Zanoni  at  my  side. 

“ ‘ The  Prince  is  a braggart,'  said  he,  with  the  same  smile 
that  displeased  me  before.  ‘ He  would  monopolize  all  fortune 
and  all  love.  Let  us  take  our  revenge.' 

“ ‘ And  how  ? ' 

‘ He  has,  at  this  moment,  in  his  house  the  most  enchanting 
singer  in  Naples — the  celebrated  Viola  Pisani.  She  is  here,  it 
is  true,  not  by  her  own  choice  ; he  carried  her  hither  by  force, 
but  he  will  pretend  that  she  adores  him.  Let  us  insist  on  his 
producing  his  secret  treasure,  and  when  she  enters,  the  Due 

de  R can  have  no  doubt  that  his  flatteries  and  attentions 

will  charm  the  lady,  and  provoke  all  the  jealous  fears  of  our 
host.  It  would  be  a fair  revenge  upon  his  imperious  self-con- 
ceit.’ 

“ This  suggestion  delighted  me.  I hastened  to  the  Prince. 
At  that  moment  the  musicians  had  just  commenced  ; I waved 
my  hand,  ordered  the  music  to  stop,  and  addressing  the 
Prince,  who  was  standing  in  the  center  of  one  of  the  gayest 
groups,  complained  of  his  want  of  hospitality  in  affording  to  us 
such  poor  proficients  in  the  art,  w'hile  he  reserved  for  his  own 
solace  the  lute  and  voice  of  the  first  performer  in  Naples.  I 
demanded  half-laughing,  half-seriously,  that  be  should  pro 


1 


ZANONl  183 

duce  the  Pisani.  My  demand  was  received  with  shouts  of 
applause  by  the  rest.  We  drowned  the  replies  of  our  host 
with  uproar,  and  would  hear  no  denial.  ‘ Gentlemen,’  at  last 
said  the  Prince,  when  he  could  obtain  an  audience,  ‘even 
were  I to  assent  to  your  proposal,  I could  not  induce  the 
Signora  to  present  herself  before  an  assemblage  as  riotous  as 
they  are  noble.  You  have  too  much  chivalry  to  use  compulsion 

with  her,  though  the  Due  de  R forgets  himself  sufficiently 

to  administer  it  to  me.’ 

“ I was  stung  by  this  taunt,  however  well  deserved.  ‘ Prince,’ 
said  I,  ‘ I have  for  the  indelicacy  of  compulsion  so  illustrious 
an  example,  that  I cannot  hesitate  to  pursue  the  path  honored 
by  your  own  footsteps.  All  Naples  knows  that  the  Pisani 
despises  at  once  your  gold  and  your  love — that  force  alone 
could  have  brought  her  under  your  roof ; and  that  you  refuse 
to  produce  her,  because  you  fear  her  complaints,  and  know 
enough  of  the  chivalry  your  vanity  sneers  at  to  feel  assured 
that  the  gentlemen  of  France  are  not  more  disposed  to 
worship  beauty  than  to  defend  it  from  wrong.’ 

“‘You  speak  well,  sir,’  said  Zanoni,  gravely.  ‘ The  Prince 
dares  not  produce  his  prize  ! ’ 

“The  Prince  remained  speechless  for  a few  moments,  as  if 
with  indignation.  At  last  he  broke  out  into  expressions  the 
most  injurious  and  insulting  against  Signor  Zanoni  and  my- 
self. Zanoni  replied  not ; I was  more  hot  and  hasty.  The 
guests  appeared  to  delight  in  our  dispute.  None,  except 
Mascari,  whom  we  pushed  aside  and  disdained  to  hear,  strove 
to  conciliate  ; some  took  one  side,  some  another.  The  issue 
may  be  well  foreseen.  Swords  were  called  for  and  procured. 
Two  were  offered  me  by  one  of  the  party.  I was  about  to  choose 
one,  when  Zanoni  placed  in  my  hand  the  other,  which,  from  its 
hilt,  appeared  of  antiquated  workmanship.  At  the  same  moment, 
looking  toward  the  Prince,  he  said,  smilingly,  ‘The  Due  takes 
your  grandsire’s  sword.  Prince,  you  are  too  brave  a man  for 
superstition ; you  have  forgot  the  forfeit  1 ’ Our  host  seemed  to 
me  to  recoil  and  turn  pale  at  those  words ; nevertheless,  he 
returned  Zanoni’s  smile  with  a look  of  defiance.  The  next 
moment  all  was  broil  and  disorder.  There  might  be  some 
six  or  eight  persons  engaged  in  a strange  and  confused  kind 
of  but  the  Prince  and  myself  only  sought  each  other. 
The  noise  a^^ound  us,  the  confusion  of  the  guests,  the  cries  of 
the  musicians,  the  clash  of  our  own  swords,  only  served  to 
stimulate  our  unhappy  fury.  We  feared  to  be  interrupted  hy 
the  attendants,  and  fought  like  madmen,  without  skill  01 


ZANONL 


1^4 

method.  I thrust  and  parried  mechanically,  blind  and  frarh 
tic,  as  if  a demon  had  entered  into  me,  till  I saw  the  Prince 
stretched  at  my  feet,  bathed  in  his  blood,  and  Zanoni  bending 
over  him,  and  whispering  in  his  ear.  That  sight  cooled  us 
all.  The  strife  ceased,  we  gathered  in  shame,  remorse,  and 
horror,  round  our  ill-fated  host — but  It  was  too  late — hia 
eyes  rolled  fearfully  in  his  head.  I have  seen  many  men  die, 
but  never  one  who  wore  such  horror  on  his  countenance.  At 
last,  all  was  over  1 Zanoni  rose  from  the  corpse,  and  taking 
with  great  composure,  the  sword  from  my  hand,  said,  calmly 
— ‘ Ye  are  witnesses,  gentlemen,  that  the  Prince  brought  his 
fate  upon  himself.  The  last  of  that  illustrious  house  has 
perished  in  a brawl.’ 

“ I saw  no  more  of  Zanoni.  I hastened  to  our  envoy  to 
narrate  the  event,  and  abide  the  issue.  I am  grateful  to  the 
Neapolitan  government,  and  to  the  illustrious  heir  of  the  unfor- 
tunate nobleman,  for  the  lenient  and  generous,  yet  just,  inter- 
pretation put  upon  a misfortune,  the  memory  of  which  will 
afflict  me  to  the  last  hour  of  my  life. 

(Signed)  “ Louis  Victor,  Due  de  R.” 

In  the  above  memorial,  the  reader  will  find  the  most  exact 
and  minute  account  yet  given  of  an  event  which  created  the 
most  lively  sensation  at  Naples  in  that  day. 

Glyndon  had  taken  no  part  in  the  affray,  neither  had  he 
participated  largely  in  the  excesses  of  the  revel.  For  his 
exemption  from  both,  he  was  perhaps  indebted  to  the  whis- 
pered exhortations  of  Zanoni.  When  the  last  rose  from  the 
corpse,  and  withdrew  from  that  scene  of  confusion,  Glyndon 
remarked  that  in  passing  the  crowd  he  touched  Mascari  on 
the  shoulder,  and  said  something  which  the  Englishman  did 
not  overhear.  Glyndon  followed  Zanoni  into  the  banquet- 
room,  which,  save  where  the  moon-light  slept  on  the  marble 
floor,  was  wrapt  in  the  sad  and  gloomy  shadows  of  the 
advancing  night. 

“ How  could  you  foretell  this  fearful  event  ? He  fell  not 
by  your  arm  I ” said  Glyndon,  in  a tremulous  and  hollow  tone. 

“ The  general  who  calculates  on  the  victory  does  not  fight 
in  person,”  answered  Zanoni ; “ let  the  past  sleep  with  the 
dead.  Meet  me  at  midnight  by  the  sea-shore,  half  a mile  to 
the  left  of  your  hotel.  You  will  know  the  spot  by  a rude 
pillar— the  only  one  near — to  which  a broken  chain  is 
attached.  There  and  then,  if  thou  wouldst  learn  our  lore. 


ZANONI,  ‘ 

thou  shalt  find  the  master.  Go ; — I have  business  here  ^vet. 
Remember,  Viola  is  still  in  the  house  of  the  dead  man  ! '' 

Here  Mascari  approached,  and  Zanoni,  turning  to  the 
Italian,  and  waving  his  hand  to  Glyndon,  drew  the  former 
aside.  Glyndon  slowly  departed. 

“Mascari,”  said  Zanoni,  “your  patron  is  no  more  ; your 
services  will  be  valueless  to  his  heir, — a sober  man,  whom 
poverty  has  preserved  from  vice.  For  yourself,  thank  me 
that  I do  not  give  you  up  to  the  executioner : recollect  the 
wine  of  Cyprus.  Well,  never  tremble,  man  ; it  could  not 
act  on  me,  though  it  might  re-act  on  others ; in  that  it  is  a 
common  type  of  crime.  I forgive  you  ; and  if  the  wine 
should  kill  me,  I promise  you  that  my  ghost  shall  not  haunt 
so  worshipful  a penitent.  Enough  of  this ; conduct  me  to 
the  chamber  of  Viola  Pisani.  You  have  no  further  need  of 
her.  The  death  of  the  jailer  opens  the  cell  of  the  captive. 
Be  quick,  I would  be  gone.’* 

Mascari  muttered  some  inaudible  words,  bowed  low,  and 
led  the  way  to  the  chamber  in  which  Viola  was  confined. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


Merc.  Tell  me,  therefore,  what  thou  seekest  after,  and  what  thou  wilt  havt 
What  dost  thou  desire  to  make  ? 

Alch.  The  Philosopher’s  Stone. 

Sandivogius. 

It  wanted  several  minutes  of  midnight,  and  Glyndon 
repaired  to  the  appointed  spot.  The  mysterious  empire 
which  Zanoni  had  acquired  over  him,  was  still  more  solemnly 
confirmed  by  the  events  of  the  last  few  hours  ; the  sudden  fate 
of  the  Prince,  so  deliberately  foreshadowed,  and  yet  so  seem- 
ingly accidental,  brought  out  by  causes  the  most  commom 
place,  and  yet  associated  with  words  the  most  prophetic, 
impressed  him  with  the  deepest  sentiments  of  admiration  and 
awe.  It  was  as  if  this  dark  and  wondrous  being  could  con- 
vert the  most  ordinary  events  and  the  meanest  instruments 
into  the  agencies  of  his  inscrutable  will ; yet,  if  so,  why  have 
permitted  the  capture  of  Viola  ? Why  not  have  prevented 
the  crime,  rather  than  punish  the  criminal  ? And  did  Zanoni 
really  feel  love  for  Viola  ? Love  and  yet  offer  to  resign 
her  to  himself, — to  a rival,  whom  his  arts  could  not  have  failed 
to  baffle.  He  no  longer  reverted  to  the  belief  that  Zanoni 
or  Viola  had  sought  to  dupe  him  into  marriage.  His  fea? 


t86 


ZAJV0JV7. 


and  reverence  for  the  former  now  forbade  the  notion  of  sc 
poor  an  imposture.  Did  he  any  longer  love  Viola  himself  ? 
No  ; when  that  morning  he  had  heard  of  her  danger,  he 
had,  it  is  true,  returned  to  the  sympathies  and  the  fears  of  affec- 
tion; but  with  the  death  of  the  Prince  her  image  faded 
again  from  his  heart,  and  he  felt  no  jealous  pang  at  the 
thought  that  she  had  been  saved  by  Zanoni, — that  at  that 
moment  she  was  perhaps  beneath  his  roof.  Whoever  has,  in 
the  course  of  his  life,  indulged  the  absorbing  passion  of  the 
gamester,  will  remember  how  all  other,  pursuits  and  objects 
vanished  from  his  mind ; how  solely  he  was  wrapped  in  the 
one  wild  delusion ; with  what  a scepter  of  magic  power  the 
despot-demon  ruled  every  feeling  and  every  thought.  Far 
more  intense  than  the  passion  of  the  gamester  was  the  fran- 
tic, yet  sublime  desire,  that  mastered  the  breast  of  Glyndon. 
He  would  be  the  rival  of  Zanoni,  not  in  human  and  perishable 
affections,  but  in  preternatural  and  eternal  lore.  He  would 
have  laid  down  life  with  content — nay,  rapture,  as  the 
price  of  learning  those  solemn  secrets  which  separated  the 
stranger  from  mankind.  Enamoured  of  the  goddess  of  god- 
desses, he  stretched  forth  his  arms — the  wild  Ixion — and 
embraced  a cloud ! 

The  night  was  most  lovely  and  serene,  and  the  waves 
scarcely  rippled  at  his  feet,  as  the  Englishman  glided  on  by 
the  cool  and  starry  beach.  At  length  he  arrived  at  the  spot, 
and  there,  leaning  against  the  broken  pillar,  he  beheld  a man 
wrapped  in  a long  mantle,  and  in  an  attitude  of  profound 
repose.  He  approached,  and  uttered  the  name  of  Zanoni. 
The  figure  turned,  and  he  saw  the  face  of  a stranger  : a face 
not  stamped  by  the  glorious  beauty  of  Zanoni,  but  equally 
majestic  in  its  aspect,  and  perhaps  still  more  impressive  from 
the  mature  age  and  the  passionless  depth  of  thought  that 
characterized  the  expanded  forehead,  and  deep-set  but  pierc- 
ing eyes. 

“You  seek  Zanoni,”  said  the  stranger;  “he  will  be  here 
anon ; but,  perhaps,  he  whom  ^you  see  before  you,  is  more 
connected  with  your  destiny,  and  more  disposed  to  realize 
your  dreams.” 

“ Hath  the  earth  then  another  Zanoni  ? ” 

“ If  not,”  replied  the  stranger,  “ why  do  you  cherish  the  hope 
and  the  wild  faith  to  be  yourself  a Zanoni  ? Think  you  that 
none  others  have  burned  with  the  same  godlike  dream  ? 
Who,  indeed,  in  his  first  youth — ^youth  when  the  soul  is 
nearer  to  the  heaven  from  which  it  sprung,  and  its  divine  and 


zAmm. 


187 

primal  longings  are  not  all  effaced  by  the  sordid  passions  and 
petty  cares  that  are  begot  in  time — ^who  is  there  in  youth 
that  has  not  nourished  the  belief  that  the  universe  has 
secrets  not  known  to  the  common  herd,  and  panted,  as  the 
hart  for  the  water  springs,  for  the  fountains  that  lie  hid  and 
far  away  amid  the  broad  wilderness  of  trackless  science  ? 
The  music  of  the  fountain  is  heard  in  the  soul  within,  till  the 
steps,  deceived  and  erring,  rove  away  from  its  waters,^  and 
the  wanderer  dies  in  the  mighty  desert.  Think  you  that 
none  who  have  cherished  the  hope  have  found  the  truth  ? or 
that  the  yearning  after  the  Ineffable  Knowledge  was  given  to 
us  utterly  in  vain  ? No  1 Every  desire  in  human  hearts  is 
but  a glimpse  of  things  that  exist,  alike  distant  and  divine. 
No  ! in  the  world  there  have  been,  from  age  to  age,  some 
brighter  and  happier  spirits  who  have  attained  to  the  air  in 
which  the  beings  above  mankind  move  and  breathe.  Zanoni, 
great  though  he  be,  stands  not  alone.  He  has  had  his  pre- 
decessors, and  long  lines  of  successors  may  be  yet  to  come.” 

“ And  will  you  tell  me,”  said  Glyndon,  “ that  in  yourself  I 
behold  one  of  that  mighty  few  over  whom  Zanoni  has  no 
superiority  in  power  and  wisdom  ? ” 

“ In  me,”  answered  the  stranger,  “ you  see  one  from  whom 
Zanoni  himself  learned  some  of  his  loftiest  secrets.  On  these 
shores,  on  this  spot,  have  I stood  in  ages  that  your  chroniclers 
but  feebly  reach.  The  Phoenician,  the  Greek,  the  Oscan,The 
Roman,  the  Lombard,  I have  seen  them  ail ! — leaves  gay  and 
glittering  on  the  trunk  of  the  universal  life,  scattered  in  due 
season  and  again  renewed ; till  indeed,  the  same  race  that 
gave  its  glory  to  the  ancient  world  bestowed  a second  youth 
upon  the  new.  For  the  pure  Greek,  the  Hellenes,  whose 
origin  has  bewildered  your  dreaming  scholars,  were  of  the 
same  great  family  as  the  Norman  tribe,  born  to  be  the  lords 
of  the  universe,  and  in  no  land  on  the  earth  destined  to 
become  the  hewers  of  wood.  Even  the  dim  traditions  of  the 
learned,  which  bring  the  sons  of  Hellas  from  the  vast  and 
undermined  territories  of  northern  Thrace,  to  be  the  victors 
of  the  pastoral  Pelasgi,  and  the  founders  of  the  line  of  demi- 
gods;— ^which  assign  to  a population  bronzed  beneath  the 
suns  of  the  west,  the  blue-eyed  Minerva  and  the  yellow-haired 
Achilles  (physical  characteristics  of  the  north) which 
introduce  among  a pastoral  people,  warlike  aristocracies, 
and  limited  monarchies,  the  feudalism  of  the  classic  time  ; 
even  these  might  serve  you  to  trace  back  the  primeval 
settlements  of  the  Hellenes  to  the  same  region  whence,  in 


i88 


ZANOm, 


latter  times,  the  Norman  warriors  broke  on  the  dull  and 
savage  hordes  of  the  Celt,  and  became  the  Greeks  of  the 
Christian  world.  But  this  interests  you  not,  and  you  are  wise 
in  your  indifference.  Not  in  the  knowledge  of  things  with- 
out, but  in  the  perfection  of  the  soul  within,  lies  the  empire  of 
man  aspiring  to  be  more  than  man.” 

“ And  what  books  contain  that  science  ? — from  what 
laboratory  is  it  wrought?  ” 

“ Nature  supplies  the  materials ; they  are  around  you  in 
your  daily  walks.  In  the  herbs  that  the  beast  devours  and 
the  chemist  disdains  to  cull;  in  the  elements,  from  which 
matter  in  its  meanest  and  its  mightiest  shapes  is  deduced ; 
in  the  wide  bosom  of  the  air ; in  the  black  abysses  of  the 
earth ; everywhere  are  given  to  mortals  the  resources  and 
libraries  of  immortal  lore.  But  as  the  simplest  problems  in 
the  simplest  of  all  studies  are  obscure  to  one  who  braces  not 
his  mind  to  their  comprehension,  as  the  rower  in  yonder 
vessel  cannot  tell  you  why  two  circles  can  touch  each  other 
only  in  one  point ; so,  though  all  earth  were  carved  over  and 
inscribed  over  with  the  letters  of  diviner  knowledge,  the 
characters  would  be  valueless  to  him  who  does  not  pause  to 
inquire  the  language,  and  meditate  the  truth.  Young  man,  if 
thy  imagination  is  vivid,  if  thy  heart  is  daring,  if  thy  curiosity 
is  insatiate,  I will  accept  thee  as  my  pupil.  But  the  -first 
lessons  are  stern  and  dread.” 

If  thou  hast  mastered  them,  why  not  I ? ” answered 
Glyndon,  boldly.  “ I have  felt  from  my  boyhood  that  strange 
mysteries  were  reserved  for  my  career ; and  from  the  proudest 
ends  of  ordinary  ambition,  I have  carried  my  gaze  into  the 
cloud  and  darkness  that  stretch  beyond.  The  instant  I 
beheld  Zanoni,  I felt  as  if  I had  discovered  the  guide  and 
the  tutor  for  which  my  youth  had  idly  languished  and  vainly 
burned.” 

“ And  to  me  his  duty  is  transferred,”  replied  the  stranger. 
“ Yonder  lies,  anchored  in  the  bay,  the  vessel  in  which 
Zanoni  seeks  a fairer  home  ; a little  while  and  the  breeze  will 
rise,  the  sail  will  swell,  and  the  stranger  will  have  passed, 
like  the  wind,  away.  Still,  like  the  wind,  he  leaves  in  thy 
heart  the  seeds  that  may  bear  the  blossoms  and  the  fruit. 
Zanoni  hath  performed  his  task,  he  is  wanted  no  more ; the 

perfecter  of  his  work  is  at  thy  side. He  comes  ! I hear 

the  dash  of  the  oar.  You  will  have  your  choice  submitted  to 
you.  According  as  you  decide,  we  shall  meet  again.”  With 
these  words  the  stranger  moved  slowly  away,  and  disappeared 


ZAJvom. 


189 

beneath  the  shadow  of  the  cliffs.  A boat  glided  rapidly 
across  the  waters ; it  touched  land  ; a man  leapt  on  shore, 
and  Glyndon  recognized  Zanoni. 

“ I give  thee,  Glyndon — I give  thee  no  more  the  option  of 
happy  love  and  serene  enjoyment.  That  hour  is  past,  and 
fate  has  linked  the  hand  that  might  have  been  thine  own,  to 
mine.  But  I have  ample  gifts  to  bestow  upon  thee,  if  thou 
wilt  abandon  the  hope  that  gnaws  thy  heart,  and  the  realiza- 
tion of  which,  even  I have  not  the  power  to  foresee.  Be 
thine  ambition  human,  and  I can  gratify  it  to  the  full.  Men 
desire  four  things  in  life — love,  wealth,  fame,  power.  The 
first  I cannot  give  thee,  the  rest  are  at  my  disposal.  Select 
which  of  them  thou  wilt,  and  let  us  part  in  peace.” 

“ Such  are  not  the  gifts  I covet.  I choose  knowledge  ; 
that  knowledge  must  be  thine  own.  For  this,  and  for  this 
alone,  I surrendered  the  love  of  Viola ; this,  and  this  alone, 
must  be  my  recompense.” 

“ I cannot  gainsay  thee,  though  I can  warn.  The  desire 
to  learn  does  not  always  contain  the  faculty  to  acquire.  I 
can  give  thee,  it  is  true,  the  teacher — the  rest  must  depend 
on  thee.  Be  wise  in  time,  and  take  that  which  I can  assure 
to  thee.” 

“ Answer  me  but  these  questions,  and  according  to  your 
answer  I will  decide.  Is  it  in  the  power  of  man  to  attain 
intercourse  with  the  beings  of  other  worlds  ? Is  it  in  the 
power  of  man  to  influence  the  elements,  and  to  insure  life 
against  the  sword  and  against  disease  ? ” 

‘‘  All  this  may  be  possible,”  answered  Zanoni,  evasively 

to  the  few.  But  for  one  who  attains  such  secrets,  millions 
may  perish  in  the  attempt.” 

“ One  question  more.  Thou ” 

“ Beware  I Of  myself,  as  I have  said  before,  I render  no 
account.” 

“ Well,  then,  the  stranger  I have  met  this  night,  are  his 
boasts  to  be  believed  ? Is  he  in  truth  one  of  the  chosen 
seers  whom  you  allow  to  have  mastered  the  mysteries  I yearn 
to  fathom  ? ” 

“ Rash  man,”  said  Zanoni,  in  a tone  of  compassion,  thy 
crisis  is  past,  and  thy  choice  made  ! I can  only  bid  thee  be 
bold  and  prosper  ; yes,  I resign  thee  to  a master  who  has  the 
power  and  the  will  to  open  to  thee  the  gates  of  an  awful 
world.  Thy  weal  or  woe  are  as  naught  in  the  eyes  of  his 
relentless  wisdom.  I would  bid  him  spare  thee,  but  he  will 
heed  me  not.  Mejnour,  receive  thy  pupil ! ” Glyndon 


190 

turned,  and  his  heart  beat  when  he  perceived  that  the  stran* 
ger,  whose  footsteps  he  had  not  heard  upon  the  pebbles, 
whose  approach  he  had  not  beheld  in  the  moonlight,  was 
once  more  by  his  side  ! 

“ Farewell,”  resumed  Zanoni ; “ thy  trial  commences. 
When  next  we  meet,  thou  wilt  be  the  victim  or  the  victor.” 

Glyndon’s  eyes  followed  the  receding  form  of  the  mys- 
terious stranger.  He  saw  him  enter  the  boat,  and  he  then 
for  the  first  time  noticed  that  besides  the  rowers  there  was  a 
female,  who  stood  up  as  Zanoni  gained  the  boat.  Even  at  the 
distance,  he  recognized  the  once  adored  form  of  Viola.  She 
waved  her  hand  to  him,  and  across  the  still  and  shining  air 
came  her  voice,  mournfully  and  sweetly  in  her  mother’s 
tongue — “ Farewell,  Clarence — I forgive  thee  ! — farewell, 
farewell ! ” 

He  strove  to  answer,  but  the  voice  touched  a chord  at  his 
heart,  and  the  words  failed  him.  Viola  w^as  then  lost  for- 
ever ; gone  with  this  dread  stranger  ; darkness  was  round  her 
lot ! And  he  himself  had  decided  her  fate  and  his  own  ! 
The  boat  bounded  on,  the  soft  waves  flashed  and  sparkled 
beneath  the  oars,  and  it  was  along  one  sapphire  track  of 
moonlight  that  the  frail  vessel  bore  away  the  lovers.  Fur- 
ther, and  further  from  his  gaze,  sped  the  boat,  till  at  last 
the  speck,  scarcely  visible,  touched  the  side  of  the  ship  that 
lay  lifeless  in  the  glorious  bay.  At  that  instant,  as  if  by 
magic,  up  sprang,  with  a glad  murmur,  the  playful  and 
freshening  wind  ; and  Glyndon  turned  to  Mejnour  and 
broke  the  silence. 

“Tell  me  (if  thou  canst  read  the  future),  tell  me  that 
her  lot  will  be  fair,  and  that  her  choice  at  least  is  wise  ? ’* 

***  My  pupil ! ” answered  Mejnour,  in  a voice  the  calmness 
of  which  well  accorded  with  the  chilling  words,  “ thy  first 
task  must  be  to  withdraw  all  thought,  feeling,  sympathy 
from  others.  The  elementary  stage  of  knowledge  is  to  make 
self,  and  self  alone,  thy  study  and  thy  world.  Thou  hast 
decided  thine  own  career ; thou  hast  renounced  love  ; 
thou  hast  rejected  wealth,  fame,  and  the  vulgar  pomps  of 
power.  What  then  are  all  mankind  to  thee  ? To  perfect 
thy  faculties,  and  concentrate  thy  emotions,  is  henceforth 
thy  only  aim  ! ” 

“ And  will  happiness  be  the  end  ? ” 

“ If  happiness  exist,”  answered  Mejnour,  “ it  must  be  cen« 
tered  in  a self  to  which  all  passion  is  unknown.  But  hap 


ZaNONT,  ' igt 

piness  is  the  last  state  of  being  ; and  as  yet  thou  art  on  the 
threshold  of  the  first.” 

As  Mejnour  spoke,  the  distant  vessel  spread  its  sails  to  the 
wind,  and  moved  slowly  along  the  deep.  Glyndon  sighed, 
and  the  pupil  and  the  master  retraced  their  steps  toward  the 
city. 


EKD  OF  THE  FIRST  VOLUME. 


BUUK  IV. 

THE  DWELLER  OF  THE  THRESHOLD. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Come  vittima  io  vengo  all’  ara.* 

Metast.  , At.  ii.  Sc.  7. 

It  was  about  a month  after  the  date  of  Zanoni’s  departure, 
and  Glyndon’s  introduction  to  Mejnour,  when  two  Englishmen 
were  walking,  arm  in  arm,  through  the  Toledo. 

“ I tell  you,”  said  one  (who  spoke  warmly),  “ that  if  you  have 
a particle  of  common  sense  left  in  you,  you  will  accompany 
me  to  England.  This  Mejnour  is  an  impostor  more  danger- 
ous, because  more  in  earnest,  than  Zanoni.  After  all,  what 
do  his  promises  amount  to  ?.  You  allow  that  nothing  can  be 
more  equivocal.  You  say  that  he  has  left  Naples — that  he 
has  selected  a retreat  more  congenial  than  the  crowded  thor* 
oughfares  of  men  to  the  studies  in  which  he  is  to  initiate  you ; 
and  this  retreat  is  among  the  haunts  of  the  fiercest  bandits  of 
Italy — haunts  which  justice  itself  dares  not  penetrate.  Fitting 
hermitage  for  a sage  ! I tremble  for  you.  What  if  this  stranger 
of  whom  nothing  is  known  be  leagued  with  the  robbers  ; 
and  these  lures  for  your  credulity  bait  but  the  traps  for  your 
property — perhaps  your  life  ? You  might  come  off  cheaply  by 
a ransom  of  half  your  fortune.  You  smile  indignantly  ! Well ; 
put  common  sense  out  of  the  question  ; take  your  own  view 
of  the  matter.  You  are  to  undergo  an  ordeal  which  Mejnour 
himself  does  not  profess  to  describe  as  a very  tempting  one.  It 
may,  or  it  may  not  succeed  ; if  it  does  not,  you  are  menaced 
with  the  darkest  evils  ; and  if  it  does,  you  cannot  be  better  off 


*3 


* As  4 victim  I gv  ‘.<5  the  altar. 


194  ' T.Amm; 

than  the  dull  and  joyless  mystic  whom  you  have  taken  for  a 
master.  Away  with  this  folly  , enjoy  youth  while  it  is  left  to 
you.  Return  with  me  to  England  ; forget  these  dreams  ; enter 
your  proper  career  ; form  affections  more  respectable  than 
those  which  lured  you  awhile  to  an  Italian  adventuress.  Attend 
to  your  fortune,  make  money,  and  become  a happy  and  dis- 
tinguished man.  This  is  the  advice  of  sober  friendship ; yet 
the  promises  I hold  out  to  you  are  fairer  than  those  of 
Mejnour.” 

“ Mervale,”  said  Glyndon,  doggedly,  “ I cannot,  if  I would, 
yield  to  your  wishes.  A power  that  is  above  me  urges  me  on  ; 
I cannot  resist  its  influence.  I will  proceed  to  the  last  in  the 
strange  career  I have  commenced.  Think  of  me  no  more. 
Follow  yourself  the  advice  you  give  to  me,  and  be  happy.” 

“ This  is  madness,”  said  Mervale ; ‘‘  your  health  is  already 
failing ; you  are  so  changed  I should  scarcely  know  you. 
Come ; I have  already  had  your  name  entered  in  my  pass- 
port ; in  another  hour  I shall  be  gone,  and  you,  boy  that  you 
are,  will  be  left  without  a friend,  to  the  deceits  of  your  own 
fancy  and  the  machinations  of  this  relentless  mountebank.” 

“ Enough,”  said  Glyndon,  coldly  ; “ you  cease  to  be  an  effec- 
tive counselor  when  you  suffer  your  prejudices  to  be  thus  evi- 
dent. I have  already  had  ample  proof,”  added  the  English- 
man, and  his  pale  cheek  grew  more  pale,  “ of  the  power  of  this 
man — if  man  he  be,  which  I sometimes  doubt — and,  come 
cife,  come  death,  I will  not  shrink  from  the  paths  that  allure 
me.  Farewell,  Mervale,  if  we  never  meet  again,  if  you  hear, 
amid  our  old  and  cheerful  haunts,  that  Clarence  Glyndon 
sleeps  the  last  sleep  by  the  shores  of  Naples,  or  amid  yon 
distant  hills,  say  to  the  friends  of  our  youth — ‘ He  died 
worthily,  as  thousands  of  Martyr-students  have  died  before 
him,  in  the  pursuit  of  knowledge.’  ” 

He  wrung  Mervale’s  hand  as  he  spoke,  darted  from  his 
side,  and  disappeared  amid  the  crowd. 

By  the  corner  of  the  Toledo,  he  was  arrested  by  Nicot. 

“ Ah,  Glyndon  ! I have  not  seen  you  this  month.  Where 
have  you  hid  yourself?  Have  you  been  absorbed  in  your 
studies  ? ” 

« Yes.” 

“ I am  abou^  to  leave  Naples  for  Paris.  Will  you  accom- 
pany me  ? Talent  of  all  order  is  eagerly  sought  for  there, 
and  will  be  sure  to  rise.” 

‘‘  J thank  you ; I have  other  schemes  for  the  present.” 

*•  So  laconic  I— what  ails  you  ? Do  you  grieve  for  the  loss 


ZAN'Om.  195 

of  the  Pisani  ? Take  example  by  me.  I have  already  con- 
soled myself  with  Bianca  Sacchini — a handsome  woman — en- 
lightened— no  prejudices.  A valuable  creature  I shall  find 
her,  no  doubt.  But  as  for  this  Zanoni ! ” 

“ What  of  him  ? ’’ 

“If  ever  I paint  an  allegorical  subject,  I will  takj  his  like- 
ness as  Satan.  Ha,  ha ! a true  painter’s  revenge — eh  ? And 
the  way  of  the  world,  too ! When  we  can  do  nothing  else 
against  a man  whom  we  hate,  we  can  at  least  paint  his  effigies 
as  the  Devil’s.  Seriously,  though  : I abhor  that  man.” 

“ Wherefore  ? ” 

“ Wherefore ! Has  he  not  carried  off  the  wife  and  the 
dowry  I had  marked  for  myself  ? Yet,  after  all,”  added  Nicot, 
musingly,  “had  he  served  instead  of  injured  me,  I should 
have  hated  him  all  the  same.  His  very  form,  and  his  very 
face,  made  me  at  once  envy  and  detest  him.  I feel  that 
there  is  something  antipathetic  in  our  natures.  I feel,  too, 
that  we  shall  meet  again,  when  Jean  Nicot’s  hate  may  be  less 
impotent.  We,  too,  cher  confrere — we,  too,  may  meet  again  ! 
Vive  la  Republique!  I to  my  new  world  ! ” 

“ And  I to  mine.  Farewell ! ” 

That  day  Mervale  left  Naples ; the  next  morning  Glyndon 
also  quitted  the  City  of  Delight  alone,  and  on  horseback.  He 
bent  his  way  into  those  picturesque  but  dangerous  parts  of  the 
country,  which  at  that  time  were  infested  by  banditti,  and 
which  few  travelers  dared  to  pass,  even  in  broad  day-light,  without 
a strong  escort.  A road  more  lonely  cannot  well  be  conceived 
than  that  on  which  the  hoofs  of  his  steed,  striking  upon  the 
fragments  of  rock  that  encumbered  the  neglected  way,  woke  a 
dull  and  melancholy  echo.  Large  tracts  of  waste  land,  varied 
by  the  rank  and  profuse  foliage  of  the  South,  lay  before  him ; 
occasionally,  a wild  goat  peeped  down  from  some  rocky  crag, 
or  the  discordant  cry  of  a bird  of  prey,  startled  in  its  somber 
haunt,  was  heard  above  the  hills.  These  were  the  only  signs  of 
life ; not  a human  being  was  met — not  a hut  was  visible. 

Wrapped  in  his  own  ardent  and  solemn  thoughts,  the  young 
man  continued  his  way,  till  the  sun  had  spent  its  noon-day 
heat,  and  a breeze  that  announced  the  approach  of  eve,  sprung 
up  from  the  unseen  ocean  which  lay  far  distant  to  his  right. 
It  was  then  that  a turn  in  the  road  brought  before  him  one  of 
those  long,  desolate,  gloomy  villages  which  are  found  in  the 
interior  of  the  Neapolitan  dominions  ; and  now  he  came  upon  a 
small  chapel  on  one  side  the  road,  with  a gaudily  painted  image 
of  the  Virgin  in  the  open  shrine.  Around  this  spot,  which,  in 


ZANOm, 


196 

the  heart  of  a Christian  land,  retained  the  vestige  of  the  old 
idolatry  (for  just  such  were  the  chapels  that  in  the  pagan  age 
were  dedicated  to  the  demon-saints  of  mythology),  gathered  six 
or  seven  miserable  and  squalid  wretches,  whom  the  Curse  oi 
the  Leper  had  cut  off  from  mankind.  They  set  up  a shrill  cry  - 
as  they  turned  their  ghastly  visages  toward  the  horseman ; and 
without  stirring  from  the  spot,  stretched  out  their  gaunt  arms, 
and  implored  charity  in  the  name  of  the  Merciful  Mother ! 
Glyndon  hastily  threw  them  some  small  coins,  and,  turning 
away  his  face,  clapped  spurs  to  his  horse,  and  relaxed  not  his 
speed  till  he  entered  the  village.  On  either  side  the  narrow  and 
miry  street,  fierce  and  haggard  forms — some  leaning  against  the 
ruined  walls  of  blackened  huts,  some  seated  at  the  threshold, 
some  lying  at  full  length  in  the  mud — presented  groups  that  at 
once  invoked  pity  and  aroused  alarm ; pity  for  their  squalor, 
alarm  for  their  ferocity  imprinted  on  their  savage  aspects. 
They  gazed  at  him,  grim  and  sullen,  as  he  rode  slowly  up  the 
rugged  street ; sometimes  whispering  significantly  to  each  other, 
but  without  attempting  to  stop  his  way.  Even  the  children 
hushed  their  babble,  and  ragged  urchins  devouring  him  with 
sparkling  eyes,  muttered  to  their  mothers,  “We  shall  feast  well 
to-morrow ! It  was,  indeed,  one  of  those  hamlets  in  which 
Law  sets  not  its  sober  step,  in  which  Violence  and  Murder 
house  secure — hamlets  common  then  in  the  wilder  parts  of 
Italy, — in  which  the  peasant  was  but  the  gentler  name  for  the 
robber. 

Glyndon’s  heart  somewhat  failed  him  as  he  looked  around, 
and  the  question  he  desired  to  ask  died  upon  his  lips.  At 
length,  from  one  of  the  dismal  cabins  emerged  a form  superior 
to  the  rest.  Instead  of  the  patched  and  ragged  overall,  which 
made  the  only  garment  of  the  men  he  had  hitherto  seen,  the 
dress  of  this  person  was  characterized  by  all  the  trappings  of 
the  national  bravery.  Upon  his  raven  hair,  the  glossy  curls 
of  which  made  a notable  contrast  to  the  matted  and  elfin  locks 
of  the  savages  around,  was  placed  a cloth  cap  with  a gold  tas- 
sel that  hung  down  to  his  shoulder ; his  moustaches  were  trim- 
med with  care,  and  a silk  kerchief  of  gay  hues  was  twisted 
round  a well-shaped  but  sinewy  throat ; a short  jacket  of  rough 
cloth  was  decorated  with  several  rows  of  gilt  filagree  buttons  ; 
his  nether  garments  fitted  tight  to  his  limbs,  and  were  curiously 
braided  ; while,  in  a broad  parti-colored  sash,  were  placed  two 
silver-hilted  pistols,  and  the  sheathed  knife,  usually  worn  by 
Italians  of  the  lower  order,  mounted  in  ivory  elaborately 
carved.  A small  carbine  of  handsome  workmanship  was  slung 


ZANONI. 


19? 


icross  his  shoulder,  and  completed  his  costume.  The  man 
aimself  was  of  middle  size,  athletic  yet  slender,  with  straight 
and  regular  features,  sun-burnt,  but  not  swarthy ; and  an  ex- 
pression of  countenance  which,  though  reckless  and  bold,  had 
in  it  frankness  rather  than  ferocity,  and,  if  defying,  was  not 
altogether  unprepossessing. 

Glyndon  after  eyeing  this  figure  for  some  moments  with 
great  attention,  checked  his  rein,  and  asked  the  way  to  the 
“ Castle  of  the  Mountain.” 

The  man  lifted  his  cap  as  he  heard  the  question,  and,  ap- 
proaching Glyndon,  laid  his  hand  upon  the  neck  of  the  horse, 
and  said,  in  a low  voice,  “ Then  you  are  the  cavalier  whom 
our  patron  the  signor  expected.  He  bade  me  wait  for  you 
here,  and  lead  you  to  the  castle.  And  indeed,  signor,  it  might 
have  been  unfortunate  if  I had  neglected  to  obey  the  com- 
mand.” 

The  man  then,  drawing  a little  aside,  called  out  to  the  by- 
standers, in  a loud  voice,  “ Ho,  ho  ! my  friends,  pay  hence- 
forth and  forever  all  respect  to  this  worshipful  cavalier.  He 
is  the  expected  guest  of  our  blessed  patron  of  the  Castle  of 
the  Mountain.  Long  life  to  him  ! May  he,  like  his  host,  be 
safe  by  day  and  by  night — on  the  hill  and  in  the  waste — 
against  the  dagger  and  the  bullet: — in  limb  and  in  life  ! 
Cursed  be  he  who  touches  a hair  of  his  head,  or  a baioccho 
in  his  pouch.  Now  and  forever  we  will  protect  and  honor 
him — for  the  law  or  against  the  law — with  the  faith,  and  to 
the  death.  Amen  ! Amen  ! ” 

“ Amen  I ” responded,  in  wild  chorus, . a hundred  voices ; 
and  the  scattered  and  straggling  groups  pressed  up  the  street, 
nearer  and  nearer  to  the  horseman. 

“ And  that  he  may  be  known,”  continued  the  English- 
man’s strange  protector,  “ to  the  eye  and  to  the  ear,  I place 
around  him  the  white  sash,  and  I give  him  the  sacred  watch- 
word— ‘ Peace  to  the  Brave.^  Signor,  when  you  wear  this  sash, 
the  proudest  in  these  parts  will  bare  the  head  and  bend  the 
knee.  Signor,  when  you  utter  this  watch-word,  the  bravest 
hearts  will  be  bound  to  your  bidding.  Desire  you  safety,  or 
ask  you  revenge — to  gain  a beauty,  or  to  lose  a foe — speak 
but  the  word,  and  we  are  yours, — we  are  yours  ! Is  it  not  so, 
comrades  ? ” 

And  again  the  hoarse  voices  shouted  “ Amen,  Amen  ! ” 

“ Now,  signor,”  whispered  the  bravo,  “ if  you  have  a few 
coins  to  spare,  scatter  them  among  the  crowd,  and  let  us  be 
gone.” 


198 


ZANONL 


Glyndon,  not  displeased  at  the  concluding  sentence,  emp. 
tied  his  purse  in  the  streets ; and  while,  with  mingled  oaths, 
blessings,  shrieks,  and  yells,  men,  women,  and  children 
scrambled  for  the  money,  the  bravo,  taking  the  rein  of  the 
horse,  led  it  a few  paces  through  the  village  at  a brisk  trot, 
and  then  turning  up  a narrow  lane  to  the  left,  in  a few  mim 
utes  neither  houses  nor  men  were  visible,  and  the  mountains 
closed  their  path  on  either  side.  It  was  then  that,  releasing 
the  bridle  and  slackening  his  pace,  the  guide  turned  his  dark 
eyes  on  Glyndon  with  an  arch  expression,  and  said — 

“ Your  Excellency  was  not,  perhaps,  prepared  for  the  hearty 
welcome  we  have  given  you.” 

“ Why,  in  truth,  I ought  to  have  been  prepared  for  it,  since 
the  signor,  to  whose  house  I am  bound,  did  not  disguise  from 
me  the  character  of  the  neighborhood.  And  your  name,  my 
friend,  if  I may  so  call  you  ? ” 

“ Oh,  no  ceremonies  with  me,  Excellency.  In  the  village  I 
am  generally  called  Maestro  Paolo.  I had  a surname  once, 
though  a very  equivocal  one ; and  I have  forgotten  that  since 
I retired  from  the  world.” 

“ And  was  it  from  disgust,  from  poverty,  or  from  some~» 
some  ebullition  of  passion  which  entailed  punishment,  that 
you  betook  yourself  to  the  mountains  ? ” 

“ Why,  signor,”  said  the  bravo,  with  a gay  laugh,  “ hermits 
of  my  class  seldom  love  the  confessional.  ’ However,  I have 
no  secrets  while  my  step  is  in  these  defiles,  my  whistle  in  my 
pouch,  and  my  carbine  at  my  back.”  With  that  the  robber, 
as  if  he  loved  permission  to  talk  at  his  will,  hemmed  thrice, 
and  began  with  much  humor ; though  as  his  tale  proceeded, 
the  memories  it  roused  seemed  to  carry  him  farther  than  he 
at  first  intended,  and  reckless  and  light-hearted  ease  gave  way 
to  that  fierce  and  varied  play  of  countenance  and  passion  of 
gesture  which  characterize  the  emotions  of  his  countrymen. 

“ I was  born  at  Terracina — a fair  spot,  is  it  not  ? My 
father  was  a learned  monk,  of  high  birth ; my  mother — 
Heaven  rest  her  ! — an  inn-keeper’s  pretty  daughter.  Of 
course  there  could  be  no  marriage  in  the  case ; and  when  I 
was  born,  the  monk  gravely  declared  my  appearance  to  be 
miraculous.  I was  dedicated  from  my  cradle  to  the  altar; 
and  my  head  was  universally  declared  to  be  the  orthodox 
shape  for  a cowl.  As  I grew  up,  the  monk  took  great  pains 
with  my  education ; and  I learned  Latin  and  psalmody  as 
soon  as  less  miraculous  infants  learn  crowing.  Nor  did  the 
holy  man’s  care  stint  itself  to  my  interior  accomplishments. 


ZANONl. 


m 


Although  vowed  to  poverty,  he  always  contrived  that  my 
mother  should  have  her  pockets  full ; and  between  her  pock- 
ets and  mine  there  was  soon  established  a clandestine  com^ 
munication ; accordingly,  at  fourteen,  I wore  my  cap  on  one 
side,  stuck  pistols  in  my  belt,  and  assumed  the  swagger  of  a 
cavalier  and  a gallant.  At  that  age  my  poor  mother  died ; 
and  about  the  same  period,  my  father,  having  written  a His- 
tory of  the  Pontifical  Bulls,  in  forty  volumes,  and  being,  as  1 
said,  of  high  birth,  obtained  a Cardinal’s  hat.  From  that 
time  he  thought  fit  to  disown  your  humble  servant.  He 
bound  me  over  to  an  honest  notary  at  Naples,  and  gave  me 
two  hundred  crowns  by  way  of  provision.  Well,  signor,  I 
saw  enough  of  the  law  to  convince  me  that  I should  never  be 
rogue  enough  to  shine  in  the  profession.  So,  instead  of 
spoiling  parchment,  I made  love  to  the  notary’s  daughter. 
My  master  discovered  our  innocent  amusement,  and  turned 
me  out  of  doors : that  was  disagreeable.  But  my  Ninetta 
loved  me,  and  took  care  that  I should  not  lie  out  in  the  streets 
with  the  Lazzaroni.  Little  jade,  I think  I see  her  now  with 
her  bare  feet  and  her  finger  to  her  lips,  opening  the  door  in 
the  summer  nights,  and  bidding  me  creep  softly  into  the 
kitchen,  where,  praised  be  the  saints  ! a flask  and  a manchet 
always  awaited  the  hungry  amoroso.  At  last,  however,  Ni- 
netta grew  cold.  It  is  the  way  of  the  sex,  signor.  Her  father 
found  her  an  excellent  marriage  in  the  person  of  a withered 
old  picture-dealer.  She  took  the  spouse,  and  very  properly 
clapped  the  door  in  the  face  of  her  lover.  I was  not  dis- 
heartened, Excellency ; no,  not  I,  Women  are  plentiful  while 
we  are  young.  So,  without  a ducat  in  my  pocket,  or  a crust 
for  my  teeth,  I set  out  to  seek  my  fortune  on  board  of  a Span- 
ish merchantman.  That  was  duller  work  than  I expected ; 
but  luckily  we  were  attacked  by  a pirate — half  the  crew  were 
butchered,  the  rest  captured,  I was  one  of  Ihe  last — always 
in  luck,  you  see,  signor — monks’  sons  have  a knack  that  way  ! 
The  captain  of  the  pirates  took  a fancy  to  me.  ‘ Serve  with 
us  r ’ said  he.  ‘ Too  happy,’  said  I.  Behold  me,  then,  a pi- 
rate ! O ^’blly  life  ! how  I blessed  the  old  notary  for  turning 
me  out  of  doors  ! What  feasting,  what  fighting,  what  wooing, 
what  quarreling ! Sometimes  we  ran  ashore  and  enjoyed 
ourselves  like  princes : sometimes  we  lay  in  a calm  for  days 
together  on  the  loveliest  sea  that  man  ever  traversed.  And 
then,  if  the  breeze  rose  and  a sail  came  in  sight,  who  so 
merry  as  we  ? I passed  three  years  in  that  charming  profes- 
^ion,  and  then,  signor,  I grew  ambitious.  I caballed  again s* 


200 


ZANONl, 

% 

the  captain ; I wanted  his  post.  One  still  night  we  struck 
the  blow.  The  ship  was  like  a log  in  the  sea,  no  land  to  be 
seen  from  the  mast-head,  the  waves  like  glass,  and  the  moon 
at  its  full.  Up  we  rose , thirty  of  us  and  more.  Up  we  rose 
with  a shout ; we  poured  into  the  captain’s  cabin,  I at  the 
head.  The  brave  old  boy  had  caught  the  alarm,  and  there  he 
stood  at  the  door-way,  a pistol  in  each  hand ; and  his  one 
eye  (he  had  only  one  !)  worse  to  meet  than  the  pistols  were. 

“ ‘ Yield  ! ’ cried  I,  ‘ your  life  shall  be  safe.* 

“ ‘Take  that,’  said  he,  and  whiz  went  the  bullet j but  the 
saints  took  care  of  their  own,  and  the  ball  passed  by  my 
cheek,  and  shot  the  boatswain  behind  me.  I closed  with  the 
captain,  and  the  other  pistol  went  off  without  mischief  in  the 
struggle.  Such  a fellow  he  was — six  feet  four  without  his 
shoes  ! Over  we  went,  rolling  each  on  the  other,  Santa 
Maria  ! no  time  to  get  hold  of  one’s  knife.  Meanwhile  all 
the  crew  were  up,  some  for  the  captain,  some  for  me — clash- 
ing and  firing,  and  swearing  and  groaning,  and  now  and  then 
a heavy  splash  in  the  sea  I Fine  supper  for  the  sharks  that 
night ! At  last  old  Bilboa  got  uppermost ; out  flashed  his 
knife ; down  it  came,  but  not  to  my  heart.  No  1 I gave  my 
left  arm  as  a shield ; and  the  blade  went  through  to  the  hilt, 
with  the  blood  spurting  up  like  the  rain  from  a whale’s  nos- 
tril ! With  the  weight  of  the  blow  the  stout  fellow  came 
down,  so  that  his  face,  touched  mine ; with  my  right  hand  1 
caught  him  by  the  throat,  turned  him  over  like  a lamb,  sig- 
nor, and  faith  it  was  soon  all  up  with  him — the  boatswain’s 
brother,  a fat  Dutchman,  ran  him  through  with  a pike, 

“ ‘ Old  fellow,’  said  I,  as  he  turned  his  terrible  eye  to  me, 
‘ I bear  you  no  malice,  but  we  must  try  to  get  on  in  the  world, 
you  know.’  The  captain  grinned,  and  gave  up  the  ghost,  I 
went  upon  deck — what  a sight  1 Twenty  bold  fellows  stark 
and  cold,  and  the  moon  sparkling  on  the  puddles  of  blood  as 
calmly  as  if  it  were  water.  Well,  signor,  the  victory  was  ours, 
and  the  ship  mine ; I ruled  merrily  enough  for  six  months. 
We  then  attacked  a French  ship  twice  our  size  \ what  sport  it 
was  ! And  we  had  not  had  a good  fight  so  long,  we  were  quite 
like  virgins  at  it  1 We  got  the  best  of  it,  and  won  ship  and 
cargo.  They  wanted  to  pistol  the  captain,  but  that  was 
against  my  laws  ; so  we  gagged  him,  for  he  scolded  as  loud 
as  if  we  were  married  to  him ; left  him  and  the  rest  of  his 
Cfew  on  board  our  own  vessel,  which  was  terribly  battered  , 
clapped  our  black  flag  on  the  Frenchman’s,  and  set  off 
merrily,  with  a brisk  wind  in  our  favor.  But  luck  deserted 


ZANONI. 


201 


US  on  forsaking  our  own  dear  old  ship.  A storm  came  on,  a 
plank  struck ; several  of  us  escaped  in  the  boat ; we  had  lots 
of  gold  with  us,  but  no  water ! For  two  days  and  two  nights  we 
suffered  horribly;  but  at  last  we  ran  ashore  near  a French 
sea-port.  Our  sorry  plight  moved  compassion,  and  as  we  had 
money,  we  were  not  suspected — people  only  suspect  the  poor. 
Here  we  soon  recovered  our  fatigues,  rigged  ourselves  out 
gayly,  and  your  humble  servant  was  considered  as  noble  a 
captain  as  ever  walked  deck.  But  now,  alas,  my  fate  would 
have  it  that  I should  fall  in  love  with  a silk-mercer’s  daughter. 
Ah,  how  I loved  her  I — the  pretty  Clara  ! Yes,  I loved  her 
so  well,  that  I was  seized  with  horror  at  my  past  life  I I 
resolved  to  repent,  to  marry  her,  and  settle  down  into  an 
honest  man.  Accordingly,  I summoned  my  messmates,  told 
them  my  resolution,  resigned  my  command,  and  persuaded 
them  to  depart.  They  were  good  fellows ; engaged  with  a 
Dutchman,  against  whom  I heard  afterward  they  made  a 
successful  mutiny,  but  I never  saw  them  more.  I had  two 
thousand  crowns  still  left ; with  this  sum  I obtained  the 
consent  of  the  silk-mercer,  and  it  was  agreed  that  I should 
become  a partner  in  the  firm.  I need  not  say  that  no  one 
suspected  that  I had  been  so  great  a man,  and  X passed  for  a 
Neapolitan  goldsmith’s  son,  instead  of  a cardinal’s.  I was 
very  happy  then,  signor,  very — I could  not  have  harmed  a 
fly  ! Had  I married  Clara,  I had  been  as  gentle  a mercer  as 
ever  handled  a measure.” 

The  bravo  paused  a moment,  and  it  was  easy  to  see  that  he 
felt  more  than  his  words  and  tone  betokened.  “ Well,  well, 
we  must  not  look  back  at  the  past  too  earnestly — the  sun-light 
upon  it  makes  one’s  eyes  water.  The  day  was  fixed  for  our 
wedding — it  approached.  On  the  evening  before  the  appoint- 
ed day,  Clara,  her  mother,  her  little  sister,  and  myself,  were 
walking  by  the  port ; and  as  we  looked  on  the  sea,  I was 
telling  them  old  gossip-tales  of  mermaids  and  sea-serpents, 
when  a red-faced  bottle-nosed  Frenchman  clapped  himsell 
right  before  me,  and  placing  his  spectacles  very  deliberate!)/ 
astride  his  proboscis,  echoed  out,  Sacrk  mille  tonnerres  1 
this  is  the  damned  pirate  who  boarded  the  Niobe 

“ ‘ None  of  your  jests,’  said  I,  mildly.  ‘ Ho,  ho  ! ’ said  he  ; 
* I can’t  be  mistaken  ; help  there  ! ’ and  he  griped  me  by  the 
collar.  I replied,  as  you  may  suppose,  by  laying  him  in  the 
kennel  : but  it  would  not  do.  The  French  captain  had  a 
French  lieutenant  at  his  back,  whose  memory  was  as  good  as 
his  chief’s,  A crowd  assembled  • other  sailors  came  up ; the 


202 


ZANOm. 


odds  were  against  me.  I slept  that  night  in  prison  ; and  in  a 
few  weeks  {afterward,  I was  sent  to  the  galleys.  They  spared 
my  life,  because  the  old  Frenchman  politely  averred  that  I 
had  made  my  crew  spare  his.  You  may  believe  that  the  oar 
and  the  chain  was  not  to  my  taste.  I and  two  others  escaped, 
they  took  to  the  road,  and  have,  no  doubt,  been  long  since 
broken  on  the  wheel.  I,  soft  soul,  would  not  commit  another 
crime  to  gain  my  bread,  for  Clara  was  still  at  my  heart  with 
her  sweet  eyes : so,  limiting  my  rogueries  to  the  theft  of  a 
beggar’s  rags,  which  I compensated  by  leaving  him  my  galley 
attire  instead,  I begged  my  way  to  the  town  where  I left 
Clara.  It  was  a clear  winter’s  day  when  I approached  the 
outskirts  of  the  town.  I had  no  fear  of  detection,  for  my 
beard  and  hair  was  as  good  as  a mask.  Oh,  Mother  of 
Mercy ! there  came  across  my  way  a funeral  procession  ! 
There,  now  you  know  it ; I can  tell  you  no  more.  She  had 
died,  perhaps  of  love,  more  likely  of  shame.  Can  you  guess 
how  I spent  that  night  ? — I stole  a pickaxe  from  a mason’s 
shed,  and  all  alone  and  unseen,  under  the  frosty  heavens,  I 
dug  the  fresh  mold  from  the  grave ; I lifted  the  coffin,  I 
wrenched  the  lid,  I saw  her  again — again  ! Decay  had  n®t 
touched  her.  She  was  always  pale  in  life  ! I could  have 
sworn  she  lived  ! It  was  a bleissed  thing  to  see  her  once 
more,  and  all  alone  too  ! But  then,  at  dawn,  to  give  her  back 
to  the  earth — to  close  the  lid,  to  throw  down  the  mold,  to 
hear  the  pebbles  rattle  on  the  coffin — that  was  dreadful ! 
Signor,  I never  knew  before,  and  I don’t  wish  to  think  now, 
how  valuable  a thing  human  life  is.  At  sunrise  I was  again 
a wanderer ; but  now  that  Clara  was  gone,  my  scruples  van- 
ished, and  again  I was  at  war  with  my  betters.  I contrived 

at  last,  at  O , to  get  taken  on  board  a vessel  bound  to 

Leghorn,  working  out  my  passage.  From  Leghorn  I went  to 
Rome,  and  stationed  myself  at  the  door  of  the  cardinal’s 
palace.  Out  he  came,  his  gilded  coach  at  the  gate. 

“ ‘ Ho,  father  ! ’ said  I ; ‘ don’t  you  know  me  "i  ’ 

“ ‘ Who  are  you  ? ’ 

“ ‘ Your  son,’  said  I in  a whisper. 

“The  cardinal  drew  back,  looked  at  me  earnestly,  and 
mused  a moment.  ‘ All  men  are  my  sons,’  quoth  he  then, 
very  mildly,  ‘there  is  gold  for  thee!  To  him  who  begs 
once,  alms  are  due  ; to  him  who  begs  twice,  jails  are  open. 
Take  the  hint  and  molest  me  no  more.  Heaven  bless  thee  ! ’ 
With  that  he  got  into  his  coach,  and  drove  off  to  the  Vatican. 
His  purse  whicli  he  had  left  behind  was  well  supplied.  I was 


ZANONI. 


203 


grateful  and  contented,  and  took  my  way  to  Terracina.  I 
had  not  long  passed  the  marshes,  when  I saw  two  horsemen 
approach  at  a canter. 

“ ‘ You  look  poor,  friend,’  said  one  of  them  halting ; ‘ yet 
you  are  strong.’ 

“ ‘ Poor  men  and  strong  are  both  serviceable  and  danger- 
ous, Signor  Cavalier.’ 

“ ‘ Well  said  ; follow  us.’ 

“ I obeyed,  and  became  a bandit.  I rose  by  degrees  ; and 
as  I have’  always  been  mild  in  my  calling,  and  have  taken 
purses  without  cutting  throats,  I bear  an  excellent  character, 
and  can  eat  my  macaroni  at  Naples  without  any  danger  to 
life  and  limb.  For  the  last  two  years  I have  settled  in  these 
parts,  where  I hold  sway,  and  where  I have  purchased  land. 
I am  called  a farmer,  signor ; and  I myself  now  only  rob  for 
amusement,  and  to  keep  my  hand  in.  I trust  I have  satisfied 
your  curiosity.  We  are  within  a hundred  yards  of  the 
castle.” 

“ And  how,”  asked  the  Englishman,  whose  interest  had 
been  much  excited  by  his  companion’s  narrative,  “ and  how 
came  you  acquainted  with  my  host  ? — and  by  what  means  has 
he  so  well  conciliated  the  good-will  of  yourself  and  friends : ” 

Maestro  Paolo  turned  his  black  eyes  very  gravely  toward 
his  questioner.  “Why,  signor,”  said  he,  “you  must  surely 
know  more  of  the  foreign  cavalier  with  the  hard  name  than  I 
do.  All  I can  say  is,  that  about  a fortnight  ago  I chanced  to 
be  standing  by  a booth  in  the  Toledo  at  Naples,  when  a 
sober-looking  gentleman  touched  me  by  the  arm,  and  said, 

‘ Maestro  Paolo,  I want  to  make  your  acquaintance  : do  me 
the  favor  to  come  in  to  yonder  tavern  and  drink  a flask  of  lacri- 
ma.’  ‘ Willingly,’  said  I.  So  we  entered  the  tavern.  When 
we  were  seated,  my  new  acquaintance  thus  accosted  me  : 

* The  Count  d’O has  offered  to  let  me  hire  his  old  castle 

near  B . You  know  the  spot  ? ’ 

“ ‘ Extremely  well : no  one  has  inhabited  it  for  a century  at 
least;  it  is  half  in  ruins,  signor.  A queer  place  to  hire;  I 
hope  the  rent  is  not  heavy.’ 

“ ‘ Maestro  Paolo,’  said  he,  ‘ I am  a philosopher,  and  don’t 
care  for  luxuries.  I want  a quiet  retreat  for  some  scientific 
experiments.  The  castle  will  suit  me  very  well,  provided  you 
will  accept  me  as  a neighbor,  and  place  me  and  my  friends 
under  your  special  protection.  I am  rich ; but  I shall  take 
nothing  to  the  castle  worth  robbing.  I will  pay  one  rent  tot 
the  count,  and  another  to  you/ 


204 


ZANONL 


“ With  that  we  soon  came  to  terms ; and  as  the  strange 
signor  doubled  the  sum  I myself  proposed,  he  is  in,  high  favor 
with  all  his  neighbors.  We  would  guard  the  whole  castle 
against  an  army.  And  now,  signor,  that  I have  been  thus 
frank,  be  frank  with  me.  Who  is  this  singular  cavalier  ? ” 
“Who? — he  himself  told  you,  a philosopher.” 

“ Hem  ! searching  for  the  philosopher’s  stone, — eh  ? a bit  of 
a magician ; afraid  of  the  priests  ? ” 

“ Precisely.  You  have  hit  it.” 

“ I thought  so  ; and  you  are  his  pupil  ? ” 

“lam.” 

“ I wish  you  well  through  it,”  said  the  robber  seriously,  and 
crossing  himself  with  much  devotion  : “ I am  not  much  better 
than  other  people,  but  one’s  soul  is  one’s  soul.  I do  not 
mind  a little  honest  robbery,  or  knocking  a man  on  the  head  if 
need  be — but  to  make  a bargain  with  the  devil ! — Ah  ! take 
care,  young  gentleman,  take  care.” 

“You  need  not  fear,”  said  Glyndon,  smiling;  “my  precep- 
tor is  too  wise  and  too  good  for  such  a compact.  But  here 
we  are,  I suppose.  A noble  ruin — a glorious  prospect ! ” 
Glyndon  paused  delightedly  and  surveyed  the  scene  before 
and  below  with  the  eye  of  a painter.  Insensibly,  while  listen- 
ing to  the  bandit,  he  had  wound  up  a considerable  ascent,  and 
now  he  was  upon  a broad  ledge  of  rock  covered  with  mosses 
and  dwarf  shrubs.  Between  this  eminence  and  another  of 
equal  height  upon  which  the  castle  was  built,  there  was  a 
deep  but  narrow  fissure,  overgrown  with  the  most  profuse 
foliage,  so  that  the  eye  could  not  penetrate  many  yards  below 
the  rugged  surface  of  the  abyss  ; but  the  profoundness  might  be 
well  conjectured  by  the  hoarse,  low,  monotonous  roar  of  waters 
unseen  that  rolled  below,  and  the  subsequent  course  of  which 
was  visible  at  a distance  in  a perturbed  and  rapid  stream, 
that  intersected  the  waste  and  desolated  valleys.  To  the  left 
the  prospect  seemed  almost  boundless  : the  extreme  clearness 
of  the  purple  air  serving  to  render  distinct  the  features  of  a 
range  of  country  that  a conqueror  of  old  might  have  deemed 
in  itself  a kingdom.  Lonely  and  desolate  as  the  road  which 
Glyndon  had  passed  that  day  had  appeared,  the  landscape 
now  seemed  studded  with  castles,  spires,  and  villages.  Afar 
off,  Naples  gleamed  whitely  in  the  last  rays  of  the  sun,  and 
the  rose-tints  of  the  horizon  melted  into  the  azure  of  her 
glorious  bay.  Yet  more  remote,  and  in  another  part  of  the 
prospect,  might  be  caught,  dim  and  shadowy,  and  backed  by 
the  darkest  foliage,  the  ruined  pillars  of  the  ancient  Posidonia, 


ZANONI. 


205 


There  in  the  midst  of  his  blackened  and  sterile  realms  rose 
the  dismal  Mount  of  Fire ; while,  on  the  other  hand,  winding 
through  variegated  plains,  to  which  distance  lent  all  its  magic, 
glittered  many  and  many  a stream,  by  which  Etruscan  and 
Sybarite,  Roman  and  Saracen,  and  Norman,  had,  at  intervals 
of  ages,  pitched  the  invading  tent.  All  the  visions  of  the 
past — the  stormy  and  dazzling  histories  of  southern  Italy — 
rushed  over  the  artist’s  mind  as  he  gazed  below.  And  then, 
slowly  turning  to  look  behind,  he  saw  the  gray  and  molder- 
ing  walls  of  the  castle,  in  which  he  sought  the  secrets  that 
were  to  give  to  hope  in  the  Future  a mightier  empire  than 
memory  owns  in  the  Past.  It  was  one  of  those  baronial  for- 
tresses with  which  Italy  was  studded  in  the  earlier  middle 
ages,  having  but  little  of  the  Gothic  grace  or  grandeur  which 
belongs  to  the  ecclesiastical  architecture  of  the  same  time  ; but 
rude,  vast,  and  menacing,  even  in  decay.  A wooden  bridge 
was  thrown  over  the  chasm,  wide  enough  to  admit  two  horse- 
men abreast ; and  the  planks  trembled  and  gave  back  a hollow 
sound  as  Glyndon  urged  his  jaded  steed  across. 

A road  which  had  once  been  broad  and  paved  with  rough 
flags,  but  which  now  was  half-obliterated  by  long  grass  and 
rank  weeds,  conducted  to  the  outer  court  of  the  castle  hard 
by ; the  gates  were  open,  and  half  the  building  in  this  part 
was  dismantled ; the  ruins  partially  hid  by  ivy  that  was  the 
growth  of  centuries.  But  on  entering  the  inner  court,  Glyndon 
was  not  sorry  to  notice  that  there  was  less  appearance  of 
neglect  and  decay  ; some  wild  roses  gave  a smile  to  the  gray 
walls,  and  in  the  center  there  was  a fountain,  in  which  the 
waters  still  trickled  coolly,  and  with  a pleasing  murmur,  from 
the  jaws  of  a gigantic  Triton.  Here  he  was  met  by  Mejnour 
with  a smile. 

“ Welcome,  my  friend  and  pupil,”  said  he  ; “he  who  seeks 
hx  Truth  can  find  in  these  solitudes  an  immortal  Academe.” 


ZAN0m. 


CHAPTER  II. 

And  Abaris,  so  far  from  esteeming  Pythagoras,  who  taught  these  things,  a 
necromancer  or  wizard,  rather  revered  and  admired  him  as  something  divine.— 
Iamblich.  , Vit.  Pythag. 

The  attendants  whom  Mejnour  had  engaged  for  his  strange 
abode,  were  such  as  might  suit  a philosopher  of  few  wants. 
An  old  Armenian,  whom  Glyndon  recognized  as  in  the  mystic’s 
service  at  Naples  ; a tall,  hard-featured  woman  from  the  village, 
recommended  by  Maestro  Paolo,  and  two  long-haired,  smooth- 
spoken, but  fierce-visaged  youths  from  the  same  place,  and 
honored  by  the  same  sponsorship,  constituted  the  establish- 
ment. The  rooms  used  by  the  sage  were  commodious  and 
weather-proof,  with  some  remains  of  ancient  splendor  in  the 
faded  arras  that  clothed  the  walls,  and  the  huge  tables  of 
costly  marble  and  elaborate  carving.  Glyndon’s  sleeping 
apartment  communicated  with  a kind  of  Belvidere,  or  terrace, 
that  commanded  prospects  of  unrivaled  beauty  and  extent, 
and  was  separated  on  the  other  side  by  a long  gallery,  and  a 
flight  of  ten  or  a dozen  stairs,  from  the  private  chambers  of 
the  mystic.  There  was  about  the  whole  place  a somber  and 
yet  not  displeasing  depth  of  repose.  It  suited  well  with  the 
studies  to  which  it  was  now  to  be  appropriated. 

For  several  days  Mejnour  refused  to  confer  with  Glyndon 
on  the  subjects  nearest  to  his  heart. 

“ All  without,”  said  he,  “ is  prepared,  but  not  all  within. 
Your  own  soul  must  grow  accustomed  to  the  spot,  and  filled 
with  the  surrounding  nature  ; for  nature  is  the  source  of  all 
inspiration.” 

With  these  words  Mejnour  turned  to  lighter  topics.  He 
made  the  Englishman  accompany  him  in  long  rambles  through 
the  wild  scenes  around,  and  he  smiled  approvingly  when  the 
young  artist  gave  way  to  the  enthusiasm  which  their  fearful 
beauty  could  not  have  failed  to  rouse  in  a duller  breast ; and 
then  Mejnour  poured  forth  to  his  wondering  pupil  the  stores 
of  a knowledge  that  seemed  inexhaustible  and  boundless. 
He  gave  accounts  the  most  curious,  graphic,  and  minute,  of 
the  various  races  (their  characters,  habits,  creeds,  and  manners) 
by  which  that  fair  land  had  been  successively  overrun.  It  is 
true  that  hi§  descriptions  could  found  in  books,  and 


ZANONL 


207 


were  unsupported  by  learned  authorities ; but  he  possessed 
the  true  charm  of  the  tale-teller,  and  spoke  of  all  with  the 
animated  confidence  of  a personal  witness.  Sometimes,  too, 
he  would  converse  upon  the  more  durable  and  the  loftier 
mysteries  of  Nature  with  an  eloquence  and  a research  which 
invested  them  with  all  the  colors  rather  of  poetry  than  science. 
Insensibly  the  young  artist  found  himself  elevated  and  soothed 
by  the  lore  of  his  companion ; the  fever  of  his  wild  desires 
was  slaked.  His  mind  became  more  and  more  lulled  into  the 
divine  tranquillity  of  contemplation  ; he  fek  himself  a nobler 
being ; and  in  the  silence  of  his  senses  he  imagined  that  he 
heard  the  voice  of  his  soul. 

It  was  to  this  state  that  Mejnour  evidently  sought  to  bring 
the  Neophyte,  and  in  this  elementary  initiation  the  mystic  was 
like  every  more  ordinary  sage.  For  he  who  seeks  to  discover, 
must  first  reduce  himself  into  a kind  of  abstract  idealism,  and 
be  rendered  up,  in  solemn  and  sweet  bondage,  to  the  faculties 

which  CONTEMPLATE  and  IMAGINE. 

Glyndon  noticed  that,  in  their  rambles,  Mejnour  often 
paused  where  the  foliage  was  rifest,  to  gather  some  herb  or 
flower;  and  this  reminded  him  that  he  had  seen  Zanoni 
similarly  occupied.  “ Can  these  humble  children  of  nature,” 
said  he  one  day  to  Mejnour,  “ things  that  bloom  and  wither 
in  a day,  be  serviceable  to  the  science  of  the  higher  secrets  ? 
Is  there  a pharmacy  for  the  soul  as  well  as  the  body,  and  do 
the  nurslings  of  the  summer  minister  not  only  to  human  health 
but  spiritual  immortality  ? ” 

If,”  answered  Mejnour,  ‘‘  a stranger  had  visited  a wander- 
ing tribe  before  one  property  of  herbalism  was  known  to  them  ; 
if  he  had  told  the  savages  that  the  herbs,  which  they  trampled 
under  foot,  were  endowed  with  the  most  potent  virtues  ; that 
one  would  restore  to  health  a brother  on  the  verge  of  death  ; 
that  another  would  paralyze  into  idiocy  their  wisest  sage ; 
that  a third  would  strike  lifeless  to  the  dust  their  most  stal- 
wart champion  ; that  tears  and  laughter,  vigor  and  disease, 
madness  and  reason,  wakefulness  and  sleep,  existence  and 
dissolution,  were  coiled  up  in  those  unregarded  leaves, — would 
they  not  have  held  him  t sorcerer  or  a liar  ? To  half  the 
virtues  of  the  vegetable  world  mankind  are  yet  in  the  darkness 
of  the  savages  I have  supposed.  There  are  faculties  within 
us  with  which  certain  herbs  have  affinity,  and  over  which 
they  have  power.  The  moly  of  the  ancients  is  not  all  a 
fable.” 

The  apparent  character  of  Mejnour  differed  in  much  from 


208 


ZANOm. 


that  of  Zanoni;  and  while  it  fascinated  Glyndon  less,  it 
subdued  and  impressed  him  more.  The  conversation  of 
Zanoni  evinced  a deep  and  general  interest  for  mankind — a 
feeling  approaching  to  enthusiasm  for  Art  and  Beauty.  The 
stories  circulated  concerning  his  habits  elevated  the  mysteries 
of  his  life  by  actions  of  charity  and  beneficence.  And  in  all 
this,  there  was  something  genial  and  humane  that  softened 
the  awe  he  created,  and  tended,  perhaps,  to  raise  suspicions 
as  to  the  loftier  secrets  that  he  arrogated  to  himself.  But 
Mejnour  seemed  wholly  indifferent  to  all  the  actual  world. 
If  he  committed  no  evil,  he  seemed  equally  apathetic  to 
good.  His  deeds  relieved  no  want,  his  words  pitied^  no 
distress.  What  we  call  the  heart  appeared  to  have  merged 
into  the  intellect.  He  moved,  thought,  and  lived,  like  some 
regular  and  calm  Abstraction,  rather  than  one  who  yet 
retained,  with  the  form,  the  feelings  and  sympathies  of  his 
kind ! 

Glyndon  once,  observing  the  tone  of  supreme  indifference 
with  which  he  spoke  of  those  changes  on  the  face  of  earth, 
which  he  asserted  he  had  witnessed,  ventured  to  remark  to 
him  the  distinction  he  had  noted. 

“ It  is  true,”  said  Mejnour,  coldly.  “ My  life  is  the  life 
that  contemplates — Zanoni’s  is  the  life  that  enjoys  ; when  I 
gather  the  herb,  I think  but  of  its  uses  ; Zanoni  will  pause  to 
admire  its  beauties.” 

“And  you  deem  your  own  the  superior  and  the  loftier 
existence  ? ” 

“ No.  His  ds  the  existence  of  youth — mine  of  age.  We 
have  cultivated  different  faculties.  Each  has  powers  the 
other  cannot  aspire  to.  Those  with  whom  he  associates,  live 
better — those  who  associate  with  me,  know  more.” 

“ I have  heard,  in  truth,”  said  Glyndon,  “ that  his  com- 
panions at  Naples  were  observed  to  lead  purer  and  nobler 
lives  after  intercourse  with  Zanoni ; yet  were  they  not  strange 
companions,  at  the  best,  for  a sage  ? This  terrible  power, 
too,  that  he  exercises  at  will,  as  in  the  death  of  the  Prince 

di , and  that  of  the  Count  Ughelli,  scarcely  becomes  the 

tranquil  seeker  after  good.” 

“ True,”  said  Mejnour,  with  an  icy  smile  ; “ such  must  ever 
be  the  error  of  those  philosophers  who  would  meddle  with  the 
active  life  of  mankind.  You  cannot  serve  some  without 
injuring  others  ; you  cannot  protect  the  good  without  warring 
on  the  bad ; and  if  you  desire  to  reform  the  faulty,  why,  you 
must  lower  yourself  to  live  with  the  faulty  to  know  th^h 


ZANOm. 


209 


faults.  Even  so  saith  Paracelsus,  a great  man,  though  often 
wrong.*  Not  mine  this  folly ; I live  but  in  knowledge — I 
have  no  life  in  mankind  ! ” 

Another  time  Glyndon  questioned  the  mystic  as  to  the 
nature  of  that  union  or  fraternity  to  which  Zanoni  had  once 
referred. 

“ I am  right,  I suppose,”  said  he,  “ in  conjecturing  that 
you  and  himself  profess  to  be  the  brothers  of  ^the  Rosy 
Cross  ? ” 

“ Do  you  imagine,”  answered  Mejnour,  “ that  there  were 
no  mystic  and  solemn  unions  of  men  seeking  the  same  end 
through  the  same  means,  before  the  Arabians  of  Damns,  in 
1378,  taught  to  a wandering  German  the  secrets  which 
founded  the  Institution  of  the  Rosicrucians  1 I allow,  how* 
ever,  that  the  Rosicrucians  formed  a sect  descended  from 
the  greater  and  earlier  school.  They  were  wiser  than  the 
Alchemists — their  masters  are  wiser  than  they.” 

“ And  of  this  early  and  primary  order  how  many  still 
exist  ? ” 

“Zanoni  and  myself.” 

“ What,  two  only ! — and  you  profess  the  power  to  teach  to 
all  the  secret  that  baffles  Death  ? ” 

“ Your  ancestor  attained  that  secret ; he  died  rather  than 
survive  the  only  thing  he  loved.  We  have,  my  pupil,  no  arts 
by  which  we  can  put  Death  out  of  our  option^  or  out  of  the 
will  of  Heaven.  These  walls  may  crush  me  as  I stand.  All 
that  we  profess  to  do  is  but  this — to  And  out  the  secrets  of 
the  human  frame,  to  know  why  the  parts  ossify  and  the  blood 
stagnates,  and  to  apply  continual  preventives  to  the  effects  of 
Time.  This  is  not  Magic ; it  is  the  Art  of  Medicine  rightly 
understood.  In  our  order  we  hold  most  noble— first,  that 
knowledge  which  elevates  the  intellect ; secondly,  that  which 
preserves  the  body.  But  the  mere  art  (extracted  from  the 
juices  and  simples)  which  recruits  the  animal  vigor  and 
arrests  the  progress  of  decay,  or  that  more  noble  secret  which 
I will  only  hint  to  thee  at  present,  by  which  heat  or  caloric, 
as  ye  call  it,  being,  as  Heraclitus  wisely  taught,  the  primordial 
principle  of  life,  can  be  made  its  perpetual  renovator — these, 
I say,  would  not  suffice  for  safety.  It  is  ours  also  to  disarm 
and  elude  the  wrath  of  men,  to  turn  the  swords  of  our  foes 
against  each  other,  to  glide  (if  not  incorporeal)  invisible  to 
eyes  over  which  we  can  throw  a mist  and  darkness.  And 

* “ It  is  as  necessary  to  know  evil  things  as  good  ; for  who  can  know  what  is  good 
without  the  knowing  what  is  evil  ? ” etc.—  Paracelsus  De  Nat.  Rer..,  lib.  3, 

*4 


210 


ZANOm. 


this  some  seers  have  professed  to  be  the  virtue  of  a stone  of 
agate.  Abaris  placed  it  in  his  arrow.  I will  find  you  an 
herb  in  yon  valley  that  will  give  a surer  charm  than  the  agate 
and  the  arrow.  In  one  word,  know  this,  that  the  humblest 
and  meanest  products  of  Nature  are  those  from  which  the 
sublimest  properties  are  to  be  drawn.” 

“ But,”  said  Glyndon,  “ if  possessed  of  these  great  secrets, 
why  so  churlish  in  withholding  their  diffusion  ? Does  not  the 
false  or  charlatanic  science  differ  in  this  from  the  true  and 
indisputable — that  the  last  communicates  to  the  world  the 
process  by  which  it  attains  its  discoveries ; the  first  boasts  of 
marvelous  results,  and  refuses  to  explain  the  causes  ? ” 

“ Well  said,  O Logician  of  the  Schools  ; — but  think  again. 
Suppose  we  were  to  impart  all  our  knowledge  to  all  mankind, 
indiscriminately,  alike  to  the  vicious  and  the  virtuous — should 
we  be  benefactors  or  scourges?  Imagine  the  tyrant,  the 
sensualist,  the  evil  and  corrupted  being  possessed  of  these 
tremendous  powers ; would  he  not  be  a demon  let  loose  on 
earth?  Grant  that  the  same  privilege  be  accorded  also  to 
the  good ; and  in  what  state  would  be  society  ? Engaged  in 
a Titan  war — the  good  forever  on  the  defensive,  the  bad 
forever  in  the  assault.  In  the  present  condition  of  the  earth, 
evil  is  a more  active  principle  than  good,  and  the  evil  would 
prevail.  It  is  for  these  reasons  that  we  are  not  only  solemnly 
bound  to  administer  our  lore  only  to  those  who  will  not 
misuse  and  pervert  it ; but  that  we  place  our  ordeal  in  tests 
that  purify  the  passions  and  elevate  the  desires.  And  Nature 
in  this  controls  and  assists  us ; for  it  places  awful  guardians 
and  insurmountable  barriers  betweeen  the  ambition  of  vice 
and  the  heaven  of  the  loftier  science.” 

Such  made  a small  part  of  the  numerous  conversations 
Mejnour  held  with  his  pupil, — conversations  that,  while  they 
appeared  to  address  themselves  to  the  reason,  inflamed 
yet  more  the  fancy.  It  was  the  very  disclaiming  of  all 
powers  which  Nature,  properly  investigated,  did  not  suffice 
to  create,  that  gave  an  air  of  probability  to  those  which 
Mejnour  asserted  Nature  might  bestow. 

Thus  days  and  weeks  rolled  on  • and  the  mind  of  Glyndon, 
gradually  fitted  to  this  sepuestered  and  musing  life,  forgot  at 
last  the  vanities  and  chimeras  of  the  world  without. 

One  evening  he  had  lingered  alone  and  late  upon  thfe 
ramparts,  watching  the  stars  as,  one  by  one,  they  broke  upon 
the  twilight.  Never  had  he  felt  so  sensibly  the  mighty  power 
of  the  heavens  and  the  earth  upon  man ! how  much  the 


ZANOm, 


2U 


springs  of  our  intellectual  being  are  moved  and  acted  upon 
the  solemn  influences  of  nature  ! As  a patient  on  whom, 
slowly  and  by  degrees,  the  agencies  of  mesmerism  are  brought 
to  bear,  he  acknowledged  to  his  heart  the  growing  force  of 
that  vast  and  universal  magnetism  which  is  the  life  of 
creation,  and  binds  the  atom  to  the  whole.  A strange  and 
ineffable  consciousness  of  power,  of  the  something  greai 
within  the  perishable  clay,  appealed  to  feelings  at  once  dim 
and  glorious, — like  the  faint  recognitions  of  a holier  and 
former  being.  An  impulse,  that  he  could  not  resist,  led  him 
to  seek  the  mystic.  He  would  demand,  that  hour,  his 
initiation  into  the  worlds  beyond  our  world — he  was  prepared 
to  breathe  a diviner  aif.  He  entered  the  castle,  and  strode 
the  shadowy  and  star-lit  gallery  which  conducted  to  Mejnour’s 
apartment. 


CHAPTER  III. 

Man  is  the  eye  of  things. — Euryph.,  de  Vit.  Hum, 

# * * There  is,  therefore,  a certain  ecstatical  or  transporting  power,  which,  if 
at  any  time  it  shall  be  excited  or  stirred  up  by  an  ardent  desire  and  most  strong 
imagination,  is  able  to  conduct  the  spirit  of  the  more  outward,  even  to  some  absent 
and  far-distant  object. — Von  Helmont. 

The  rooms  that  Mejnour  occupied  consisted  of  two  cham- 
bers communicating  with  each  other,  and  a third  in  which  he 
slept.  All  these  rooms  were  placed  in  the  huge  square 
tower  that  beetled  over  the  dark  and  bush-grown  precipice. 
The  first  chamber  which  Glyndon  entered  was  empty.  With 
a noiseless  step  he  passed  on,  and  opened  the  door  that 
admitted  into  the  inner  one.  He  drew  back  at  the  threshold, 
overpowered  by  a strong  fragrance  which  filled  the  chamber ; 
a kind  of  mist  thickened  the  air,  rathert  han  obscured  it,  for 
this  vapor  was  not  dark,  but  resembled  a snow-cloud  moving 
slowly,  and  in  heavy  undulations,  wave  upon  wave,  regularly 
over  the  space.  A mortal  cold  struck  to  the  Englishman’s 
heart,  and  his  blood  froze.  He  stood  rooted  to  the  spot; 
and,  as  his  eyes  strained  involuntarily  through  the  vapor,  he 
fancied  (for  he  could  not  be  sure  that  it  was  not  the  trick  of 
his  imagination)  that  he  saw  dim,  specter-like,  but  gigantic 
forms  floating  through  the  mist;  or  was  it  not  rather  the  mist 
itself  that  formed  its  vapors  fantastically  into  those  moving, 
impalpable,  and  bodiless  apparitions  ? A great  painter  of 
antiquity  is  said,  in  a picture  of  Hades,  to  have  represented 


ZaNONL 


the  monsters,  that  glide  through  the  ghostly  River  of  ihi 
Dead,  so  artfully,  that  the  eye  perceived  at  once  that  the 
river  itself  was  but  a specter,  and  the  bloodless  things  that 
tenanted  it  had  no  life,  their  forms  blending  with  the  dead 
waters  till,  as  the  eye  continued  to  gaze,  it  ceased  to  discern 
them  from  the  preternatural  element  they  were  supposed  to 
inhabit.  Such  were  the  moving  outlines  that  coiled  and 
floated  through  the  mist ; but  before  Glyndon  had  even  drawn 
breath  in  this  atmosphere — for  his  life  itself  seemed  arrested  oi 
changed  into  a kind  of  horrid  trance — he  felt  his  hand  seized, 
and  he  was  led  from  that  room  into  the  outer  one.  He  heard 
the  door  close — his  blood  rushed  again  through  his  veins,  and 
he  saw  Mejnour  by  his  side.  Strong  convulsions  then 
suddenly  seized  his  whole  frame — he  fell  to  the  ground 
insensible.  When  he  recovered,  he  found  himseif  in  the 
open  air,  in  a rude  balcony  of  stone  that  jutted  from  the 
chamber;  the  stars  shining  serenely  over  the  dark  abyss 
below,  and  resting  calmly  upon  the  face  of  the  mystic,  who 
stood  beside  him  with  folded  arms. 

“Young  man,’’  said  Mejnour,  “judge  by  what  you  have 
just  felt,  how  dangerous  it  is  to  seek  knowledge  undl  prepared 
to  receive  it.  Another  moment  in  the  air  of  that  chamber, 
and  you  had  been  a corpse.” 

“ Then  of  what  nature  was  the  knowledge  that  you,  once 
mortal  like  myself,  could  safely  have  sought  in  that  icy 
atmosphere,  which  it  was  death  for  me  to  breathe  ? — 
Mejnour,”  continued  Glyndon,  and  his  wild  desire,  sharpened 
by  the  very  danger  he  had  passed,  once  more  animated  and 
nerved  him ; “ I am  prepared  at  least  for  the  first  steps.  I 
come  to  you  as,  of  old,  the  pupil  to  the  Hierophant,  and 
demand  the  initiation.” 

Mejnour  passed  his  hand  over  the  young  man’s  heart — it 
beat  loud,  regularly,  and  boldly.  He  looked  at  him  wfth 
something  almost  like  admiration  in  bis  passionless  and  rigid 
features,  and  muttered,  half  to  himself — “ Surely,  in  so  much 
courage  the  true  disciple  is  found  at  last.”  Then,  speaking 
aloud,  he  added — “ Be  it  so ; man’s  first  initiation  is  in 
TRANCE.  In  dreams  commences  all  human  knowledge ; in 
dreams  hovers  over  measureless  space  the  first  faint  bridge 
between  spirit  and  spirit — this  world  and  the  worlds  beyond  1 
Look  steadfastly  on  yonder  star ! ” 

Glyndon  obeyed,  and  Mejnour  retired  into  the  chamber  ; 
from  which  there  then  slowly  emerged  a vapor,  somewhat 
paler  and  of  fainter  odor  than  that  which  had  nearly  produced 


ZANONT. 


2T3 


SO  fatal  an  effect  on  his  frame.  This,  on  the  contrary,  as  it 
coiled  around  him,  and  then  melted  in  thin  spires  into  the  air, 
breathed  a refreshing  and  healthful  fragrance.  He  still  kept 
his  eyes  on  the  star,  and  the  star  seemed  gradually  to  fix  asnd 
command  his  gaze.  A sort  of  languor  next  seized  his  frame, 
but  without,  as  he  thought,  communicating  itself  to  the  mind; 
and  as  this  crept  over  him,  he  felt  his  temples  sprinkled  with 
some  volatile  and  fiery  essence.  At  the  same  moment  a slight 
tremor  shook  his  limbs,  and  thrilled  through  his  veins.  The 
languor  increased  ; still  he  kept  his  gaze  upon  the  star ; and 
now  its  luminous  circumference  seemed  to  expand  and  dilate. 

It  became  gradually  softer  and  clearer  in  its  light ; spread- 
•ing  wider  and  broader,  it  diffused  all  space — all  space  seemed 
swallowed  up  in  it.  And  at  last,  in  the  midst  of  a silver  shin- 
ing atmosphere,  he  felt  as  if  something  burst  within  his  brain — ‘ 
as  if  a strong  chain  were  broken ; and  at  that  moment  a sense  of 
heavenly  liberty,  of  unutterable  delight,  of  freedom  from  the 
body,  of  bird-like  lightness,  seemed  to  float  him  into  the  space 
itself.  “ Whom  now  upon  ^earth  dost  thou  wish  to  see  ? ” 
whispered  the  voice  of  Mejnour.  “ Viola  and  Zanoni  I 
answered  Glyndon,  in  his  heart ; but  he  felt  that  his  lips 
moved  not.  Suddenly  at  that  thought — through  this  space, 
in  which  nothing  save  one  mellow  translucent  light  had  been 
discernible, — a swift  succession  of  shadowy  landscapes 
seemed  to  roll  : trees,  mountains,  cities,  seas  glided  along, 
like  the  changes  of  a phantasmagoria ; and  at  last,  settled  and 
stationary,  he  saw  a cave  by  the  gradual  marge  of  an  ocean 
shore- — myrtles  and  orange-trees  clothing  the  gentle  banks. 

On  a height,  at  a distance,  gleamed  the  white  but  shattered 
relics  of  some  ruined  heathen  edifice  ; and  the  moon,  in  calm 
splendor,  shining  over  all,  literally  bathed  with  its  light  two 
forms  without  the  cave,  at  whose  feet  the  blue  waters  crept 
and  he  thought  that  he  even  heard  them  murmur.  He  recog- 
nized both  the  figures.  Zanoni  was  seated  on  a fragment  of 
stone ; Viola,  half-reclining  by  his  side,  was  looking  into  his 
face,  which  was  bent  down  to  her,  and  in  her  countenance  was 
the  expression  of  that  perfect  happiness  which  belongs  to  per- 
fect love.  “ Wouldst  thou  hear  them  speak  ? ” whispered 
Mejnour;  and  again,  without  sound,  Glyndon  inly  answered. 
Yes  ! ” Their  voices  then  came  to  his  ear,  but  in  tones  that 
seemed  to  him  strange  ; so  subdued  were  they,  and  sounding, 
as  it  were,  so  far  off,  that  they  were  as  voices  heard  in  the 
visions  of  some  holier  men,  from  a distant  sphere. 


214 


ZANONI. 


“ And  liow  is  it,”  said  Viola,  “ that  thou  canst  find  pleasure 
in  listening  to  the  ignorant  ? ” 

“ Because  the  heart  is  never  ignorant ; because  the  mys- 
teries of  the  feelings  are  as  full  of  wonder  as  those  of  the  in- 
tellect. If  at  times  thou  canst  not  comprehend  the  language 
of  my  thoughts,  at  times,  also,  I hear  sweet  enigmas  in  that  of 
thy  emotions.” 

“ Ah,  say  not  so  ! ” said  Viola,  winding  her  arm  tenderly 
round  his  neck,  and  under  that  heavenly  light  her  face 
seemed  lovelier  for  its  blushes.  “ For  the  enigmas  are  but 
love’s  common  language,  and  love  should  solve  them.  Till  I 
knew  thee — till  I lived  with  thee — till  I learned  to  watch  for 
thy  footstep  when  absent — yet  even  in  absence  to  see  thee* 
everywhere  ! — I dreamed  not  how  strong  and  all-pervading  is 
the  connection  between  nature  and  the  human  soul ! 

“ And  yet,”  she  continued,  “ I am  now  assured  of  what  I at 
first  believed — that  the  feelings  [which  attracted  me  toward 
thee  at  first  were  not  those  of  love.  I know  that^  by  com- 
paring the  Present  with  the  Past, — it  was  a sentiment  then 
wholly  of  the  mind  or  the  spirit ! I could  not  hear  thee 
now  say,  ‘ Viola,  be  happy  with  another ! ’ ” 

“ And  I could  not  now  tell  thee  so ! Ah,  Viola ! never  be  weary 
of  assuring  me  that  thou  art  happy ! ” 

Happy,  while  thou  art  so.  Yet,  at  times,  Zanoni,  thou 
art  so  sad  ! ” 

“ Because  human  life  is  so  short ; because  we  must  part  at 
last ; because  yon  moon  shines  on  when  the  nightingale  sings 
to  it  no  more  ! A little  while,  and  thine  eyes  will  grow  dim, 
and  thy  beauty  haggard,  and  these  locks  that  I toy  with  now 
will  be  gray  and  loveless.” 

“ And  thou,  cruel  one ! ” said  Viola,  touchingly,  “ I shall 
never  see  the  gigns  of  age  in  thee  ! But  shall  we  not  grow  old 
together,  and  our  eyes  be  accustomed  to  a change  which  the 
heart  shall  not  share  ? ” 

Zanoni  sighed  I He  turned  away,  and  seemed  to  commune 
with  himself. 

Glyndon’s  attention  grew  yet  more  earnest. 

“ But  were  it  so,”  muttered  Zanoni  ; and  then  looking 
steadfastly  at  Viola,  he  said  with  a half-smile,  “ Hast  thou  no 
curiosity  to  learn  more  of  the  Lover  thou  once  couldst  believe 
the  agent  of  the  Evil  One  ? ” 

“ None  ; all  that  one  wishes  to  know  of  the  beloved  one,  I 
know, — that  thou  lovest  meP^ 


ZANOm. 


215 


“ I have  told  thee  that  my  life  is  apart  from  others.  Wouldst 
thou  not  seek  to  share  it  ? 

“ I share  it  now  ! ” 

“ But  were  it  possible  to  be  thus  young  and  fail  forever,  till 
the  world  blazes  round  us  as  one  funeral  pyre  ! ” 

“ We  shall  be  so  when  we  leave  the  world ! 

Zanoni  was  mute  for  some  moments,  and  at  length  he 
said — 

“ Canst  thou  recall  those  brilliant  and  aerial  dreams  which 
once  visited  thee  when  thou  didst  fancy  that  thou  wert  pre* 
ordained  to  some  fate  aloof  and  afar  from  the  common  chif 
dren  of  the  earth  ? ” 

“ Zanoni,  the  fate  is  found.” 

“ And  hast  thou  no  terror  of  the  future  ? ” 

“ The  future  ! I forget  it ! Time  past,  and  present,  and 
to  come,  reposes  in  thy  smile.  Ah  ! Zanoni,  play  not  with  the 
foolish  credulities  of  my  youth  ! I have  been  better  and  hum- 
bler since  thy  presence  has  dispelled  the  mist  of  the  air.  The 
Future  ! — well  when  I have  cause  to  dread  it,  I will  look  up 
to  heaven  ; and  remember  who  guides  our  fate  ! ” 

As  she  lifted  her  eyes  above,  a dark  cloud  swept  suddenly 
over  the  scene.  It  wrapt  the  orange-trees,  the  azure  ocean, 
the  dense  sands  ; but  still  the  last  images  that  it  veiled  from 
the  charmed  eyes  of  Glyndon  were  the  forms  of  Viola  and 
Zanoni.  The  face  of  the  one  rapt,  serene,  and  radiant ; the  face 
of  the  other,  dark,  thoughtful,  and  locked  in  more  than  its 
usual  rigidness  of  melancholy  beauty  and  profound  repose. 

“ Rouse  thyself,”  said  Mejnour,  “ thy  ordeal  has  com- 
menced ! There  are  pretenders  to  the  solemn  science,  who 
could  have  shown  thee  the  absent ; and  prated  to  thee,  in 
their  charlatanic  jargon,  of  the  secret  electricities  and  the 
magnetic  fluid,  of  whose  true  properties  they  know  but  the 
germs  and  elements.  I will  lend  thee  the  books  of  those  glori- 
ous dupes,  and  thou  wilt  find,  in  the  dark  ages,  how  many  erring 
steps  have  stumbled  upon  the  threshold  of  the  mighty  learn- 
ing, and  fancied  they  had  pierced  the  temple.  Hermes,  and 
Albert,  and  Paracelsus,  I knew  ye  all  : but,  noble  as  ye  were,  ye 
were  fated  to  be  deceived.  Ye  had  not  souls  of  faith  and  daring 
fitted  for  the  destinies  at  which  ye  aimed  ! Yet  Paracelsus — 
modest  Paracelsus — ^had  an  arrogance  that  soared  higher  than 
all  our  knowledge.  Ho ! ho ! — he  thought  he  could  make  a 
race  of  men  from  chemistry;  he  arrogated  to  himself  th^ 
Divine  gift— the  breath  of  life.*  He  would  have  made  men, 

* Paracelsus,  De  Nat.  Rer.,  lib : i. 


ZAmAi, 


Si6 

and,  after  all,  confessed  that  they  could  be  but  pigmies! 
My  art  is  to  make  men  above  mankind.  But  you  are 
impatient  of  my  digressions.  Forgive  me.  All  these  men 
(they  were  great  dreamers,  as  you  desire  to  be)  were  intimate 
friends  of  mine.  But  they  are  dead  and  rotten.  They  talked 
of  spirits — but  they  dreaded  to  be  in  other  company  than  that 
of  men.  Like  orators  whom  I have  heard,  when  I stood  by 
the  Pynx  of  Athens,  blazing  with  words  like  comets  in  the 
assembly,  and  extinguishing  their  ardor  like  holiday  rockets 
when  they  were  in  the  field.  Ho  ! ho  ! Demosthenes,  my 
hero-coward,  how  nimble  were  thy  heels  at  Chaeronea  ! And 
thou  art  impatient  still ! Boy,  I could  tell  thee  such  truths 
of  the  Past,  as  would  make  thee  the  luminary  of  schools. 
But  thou  lustest  only  for  the  shadows  of  the  Future.  Thou 
shalt  have  thy  wish.  But  the  mind  must  be  first  exercised 
ind  trained.  Go  to  thy  room,  and  sleep  : fast  austerely ; 
read  no  books  ; meditate,  imagine,  dream,  bewilder  thyself,  if 
ihou  wilt.  Thought  shapes  out  its  own  chaos  at  last.  Before 
midnight,  seek  me  again  ! ” 


CHAPTER  IV. 

It  is  fit  that  we  who  endeavor  to  rise  to  an  elevation  so  sublime,  should  study  first 
to  leave  behind  carnal  affections,  the  frailty  of  the  senses,  the  passions  that  be- 
long to  matter ; secondly,  to  learn  by  what  means  we  may  ascend  to  the  climax  of  pure 
intellect,  united  with  the  powers  above,  without  which  never  can  we  gain  the  lore 
of  secret  things,  nor  the  magic  that  effects  true  wonders.—  Tritemivs  on 
Secret  Things  and  Secret  Spirits. 

It  wanted  still  many  minutes  of  midnight,  and  Glyndon 
was  once  more  in  the  apartment  of  the  mystic.  He  had 
rigidly  observed  the  fast  ordained  to  him  ; and  in  the  rapt  and 
intense  reveries  into  which  his  excited  fancy  had  plunged  him, 
he  was  not  only  insensible  to  the  wants  of  the  flesh — he  felt 
above  them. 

Mejnour,  seated  beside  his  disciple,  thus  addressed  him  : 

“ Man  is  arrogant  in  proportion  to  his  ignorance.  Man’s 
natural  tendency  is  to  egotism.  Man  in  his  infancy  of  knowl- 
edge, thinks  that  all  creation  was  formed  for  him.  -For 
several  ages  he  saw  in  the  countless  worlds,  that  sparkle 
through  space  like  the  bubbles  of  a shoreless  ocean,  only  the 
petty  candles,  the  household  torches,  that  Providence  had 
been  pleased  to  light  for  no  other  purpose  but  to  make  the 
night  more  agreeable  to  man.  Astronomy  has  corrected  this 


ZANONL 


217 


delusion  of  human  vanity  : and  man  now  reluctantly  confesses 
that  the  stars  are  worlds  larger  and  more  glorious  than  his 
own, — that  the  earth  on  which  he  crawls  is  a scarce  visible 
speck  on  the  vast  chart  of  creation.  But  in  the  small  as  in 
the  vast,  God  is  equally  profuse  of  life.  The  traveler  looks 
upon  the  tree,  and  fancies  its  boughs  were  formed  for  his 
shelter  in  the  summer  sun,  or  his  fuel  in  the  winter  frosts. 
But  in  each  leaf  of  these  boughs  the  Creator  has  made  a 
world  ; it  swarms  with  innumerable  races.  Each  drop  of  the 
water  in  yon  moat  is  an  orb  more  populous  than  a kingdom  is 
of  men.  Everywhere,  then,  in  this  immense  Design,  Science 
brings  new  life  to  light.  Life  is  the  one  pervading  principle, 
and  even  the  thing  that  seems  to  die  and  putrefy,  but  engen- 
ders new  life,  and  changes  to  fresh  forms  of  matter.  Reason- 
ing then,  by  evident  analogy — if  not  a leaf,  if  not  a drop  of 
water,  but  is,  no  less  than  yonder  star,  a habitable  and  breath- 
ing world — nay,  if  even  man  himself  is  a world  to  other  lives^ 
and  millions  and  myriads  dwell  in  the  rivers  of  his  blood, 
and  inhabit  man’s  frame  as  man  inhabits  earth,  common 
sense  (if  your  schoolmen  had  it)  would  suffice  to  teach  that 
the  circumfluent  inflnite  which  you  call  space — the  boundless 
Impalpable  which  divides  earth  from  the  moon  and  stars — is 
filled  also  with  its  correspondent  and  appropriate  life.  Is  it 
not  a visible  absurdity  to  suppose  that  Being  is  crowded  upon 
every  leaf,  and  yet  absent  from  the  immensities  of  space? 
The  law  of  the  Great  System  forbids  the  waste  even  of  an 
atom  ; it  knows  no  spot  where  something  of  life  does  not 
breathe.  In  the  very  charnel-house  is  the  nursery  of  pro- 
duction and  animation.  Is  that  true  ? Well,  then,  can  you 
conceive  that  space,  which  is  the  Infinite  itself,  is  alone  a 
waste,  is  alone  lifeless,  is  less  useful  to  the  one  design  of 
universal  being  than  the  dead  carcase  of  a dog,  than  the  peo- 
pled leaf,  than  the  swarming  globule  ? The  microscope 
shows  you  the  creatures  on  the  leaf  ; no  mechanical  tube  is  yet 
invented  to  discover  the  nobler  and  more  gifted  things  that 
hover  in  the  illimitable  air.  Yet  between  these  last  and  man 
is  a mysterious  and  terrible  affinity.  And  hence,  by  tales  and 
legends,  not  wholly  false  nor  wholly  true,  have  arisen  from 
time  to  time,  beliefs  in  apparitions  and  specters.  If  more 
common  to  the  earlier  and  simpler  tribes  than  to  the  men  of 
your  duller  age,  it  is  but  that,  with  the  first,  the  senses  are 
more  keen  and  quick.  And  as  the  savage  can  see  or  scent, 
miles  away,  the  traces  of  a foe,  invisible  to  the  gross  sense  of 
the  civilized  animal,  so  the  barrier  itself  between  him  and  the 


2i8 


ZANOm. 


creatures  of  the  airy  world  is  less  thickened  and  obscured 
Do  you  listen  ? ” 

“ With  my  soul ! ” 

“ But  first,  to  penetrate  this  barrier,  the  soul  with  which  you 
listen  must  be  sharpened  by  intense  enthusiasm,  purified,  from 
all  earthly  desires.  Not  without  reason  have  the  so-styled 
magicians,  in  all  lands  and  times,  insisted  on  chastity  and 
abstemious  reverie  as  the  commuuicants  of  inspiratiou. 
When  thus  prepared,  science  can  be  brought  to  aid  it ; the 
sight  itself  may  be  rendered  more  subtle,  the  nerves  more 
acute,  the  spirit  more  alive  and  outward,  and  the  element 
itself — the  air,  the  space — may  be  made,  by  certain  secrets 
of  the  higher  chemistry,  more  palpable  and  clear.  And  this, 
too,  is  not  magic,  as  the  credulous  call  it ; — as  I have  so 
often  said  before,  magic  (or  science  that  violates  Nature) 
::dsts  not ; — it  is  but  the  science  by  which  Nature  can  be  con- 
trodsd.  Now,  in  space  there  are  millions  of  beings,  not 
literally  spiritual,  for  they  have  all,  like  the  animalculae 
unseen  by  the  naked  eye,  certain  forms  of  matter,  though  matter 
so  delicate,  air-drawn,  and  subtle,  that  it  is,  as  it  were,  but  a film, 
a gossamer  that  clothes  the  spirit.  Hence  the  Rosicrucian’a 
lovely  phantoms  of  sylph  and  gnome.  Yet,  in  truth,  these  races 
and  tribes  differ  more  widely,  each  from  each,  than  the  Calmuck 
from  the  Greek — differ  in  attributes  and  powers.  In  the  drop 
of  water  you  see  how  the  animalculae  vary,  how  vast  and  terri- 
ble are  some  of  those  monster  mites  as  compared  with 
others.  Equally  so  with  the  Inhabitants  of  the  atmosphere  ; 
some  of  surpassing  wisdom,  some  of  horrible  malignity, 
some  hostile  as  fiends  to  men,  others  gentle  as  messenger!! 
between  earth  and  heaven.  He  who  would  establish  inter- 
course with  these  varying  beings,  resembles  the  travelei 
who  would  penetrate  into  unknown  lands.  He  is  exposed  to 
strange  dangers  and  unconjectured  terrors.  That  intercoitrst 
once  gained,  I cannot  secure  thee  from  the  chances  to  which  thy 
journey  is  exposed.  I cannot  direct  thee  to  paths  free  from  the 
wanderings  of  the  deadliest  foes.  Thou  must  alone,  and  oJ 
thyself,  face  and  hazard  all.  But  if  thou  art  so  enamoured 
of  life,  as  to  care  only  to  live  on,  no  matter  for  what  ends, 
recruiting  the  nerves  and  veins  with  the  alchemist’s  vivifying 
elixir,  why  seek  these  dangers  from  the  intermediate  tribes  ? 
Because  the  very  elixir  that  pours  a more  glorious  life  into  the 
frame,  so  sharpens  the  senses  that  those  larvae  of  the  air 
become  to  thee  audible  and  apparent ; so  that,  unless  trained 
by  degrees  to  endr.re  the  phantoms  and  subdue  their  malice^ 


ZANONI. 


219 


tife  thus  gifted  would  be  the  most  awful  doom  man  could 
bring  upon  himself.  Hence  it  is,  that  though  the  elixir  be 
compounded;of’the  simplest  herbs,  his  frame  only  is  prepared 
to  receive  it  who  has  gone  through  the  subtlest  trials.  Nay, 
some,  scared  and  daunted  into  the  most  intolerable  horror  by 
the  sights  that  burst  upon  their  eyes  at  the  first  draught,  have 
found  the  potion  less  powerful  to  save  than  the  agony  and 
travail  of  Nature  to  destroy.  To  the  unprepared,  the  elixir  is 
thus  but  the  deadliest  poison.  Amid  the  dwellers  of  the 
threshold  is  ONE,  too,  surpassing  in  malignity  and  hatred  all 
her  tribe — one  whose  eyes  have  paralyzed  the  bravest,  and 
whose  power  increases  over  the  spirit  preciselyjn  proportion 
to  its  fear.  Does  thy  courage  falter  t ” 

“ Nay ; thy  words  but  kindle  it.” 

“ Follow  me,  then  ; and  submit  to  the  initiatory  labors.” 
With  that,  Mejnour  led  him  into  the  interior  chamber,  and 
proceeded  to  explain  to  him  certain  chemical  operations, 
which,  though  extremely  simple  in  themselves,  Glyndon  soon 
perceived  were  capable  of  very  extraordinary  results. 

“ In  the  remoter  times,”  said  Mejnour,  smiling,  “ our  broth- 
erhood were  often  compelled  to  recur  to  delusion  to  protect 
realities  ; and,  as  dexterous  mechanicians  or  expert  chemists, 
they  obtained  the  name  of  sorcerers.  Observe  how  easy  to 
construct  is  the  Specter  Lion  that  attended  the  renowned 
Leonardo  da  Vinci ! ” 

And  Glyndon  beheld  with  delighted  surprise  the  simple 

means  by  which  the  wildest  cheats  of  the  imagination  can  be 

formed.  The  magical  landscapes  in  which  Baptista  Porta 

rejoiced ; the  apparent  change  of  the  seasons  with  which 

Albertus  Magnus  startled  the  earl  of  Holland  ; nay,  even 

those  more  dread  delusions  of  the  Ghost  and  Image  with 

which  the  Necromancers  of  Heraclea  woke  the  conscience  of 

the  conqueror  of  Plataea  * — all  these,  as  the  showman  enchants 

some  trembling  children  on  a Christmas  Eve,  with  his  lantern 

and  phantasmagoria,  Mejnour  exhibited  to  his  pupil. 

^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 

“ And  now  laugh  forever  at  magic  ! when  these,  the  very 
cricks,  the  very  sports  and  frivolities  of  science,  were  the  very 
acts  which  men  viewed  with  abhorrence ; and  Inquisitors 
and  Kings  rewarded  with  the  rack  and  the  stake,” 

“ But  the  Alchemist’s  transmutation  of  metals ” 

“ Nature  herself  is  a laboratory  in  which  metals,  and  aU 


* Pausanias— see  Plutarch 


220 


ZANONTJi 


elements,  are  forever  at  change.  Easy  to  make  gold, — easiei 
and  more  commodious,  and  cheaper  still,  to  make  the  pearl, 
the  diamond,  and  the  ruby.  Oh,  yes  ; wise  men  found  sorcery 
in  this,  too  ; but  they  found  no  sorcery  in  the  discovery,  that 
by  the  simplest  combination  of  things  of  every-day  use  they 
could  raise  a devil  that  would  sweep  away  thousands  of  their 
kind  by  the  breath  of  consuming  fire.  Discover  what  will 
destroy  life,  and  you  are  a great  man  ! — what  will  prolong  it, 
and  you  are  an  impostor ! — Discover  some  invention  in 
machinery  that  will  make  the  rich  more  rich  and  the  poor  more 
poor,  and  they  will  build  you  a statue ! Discover  some 
mystery  in  art,  that  will  equalize  physical  disparities,  and  thejf 
will  pull  down  their  own  houses  to  stone  you ! Ha,  ha,  my 
pupil  ! such  is  the  world  Zanoni  still  cares  for  ! you  and  I will 
leave  this  world  to  itself.  And  now  that  you  have  seen  some 
few  of  the  effects  of  science,  begin  to  learn  its  grammar.” 
Mejnour  then  set  before  his  pupil  certain  tasks,  in  which 
the  rest  of  the  night  wore  itself  away. 


CHAPTER  V. 

Great  travell  hath  the  gentle  Calidore 
And  toyle  endured  * * * 

.There  on  a day — 

He  chaunst  to  spy  a sort  of  shepheard  groomer 
Playing  on  pipes  and  caroling  apace. 

♦ * * He,  there,  besyde 

Saw  a faire  damzell. 

Spenser,  Paerie  Queeney  cant.  ix. 

For  a considerable  period  the  pupil  of  Mejnour  was  now 
absorbed  in  labor  dependent  on  the  most  vigilant  attention, 
on  the  most  minute  and  subtle  calculation.  Results  aston- 
ishing and  various  rewarded  his  toils  and  stimulated  his 
interest.  Nor  were  these  studies  limited  to  chemical  discovery 
—in  which  it  is  permitted  me  to  say  that  the  greatest  marvels 
upon  the  organization  of  physical  life  seemed  wrought  by 
experiments  of  the  vivifying  influence  of  heat.  Mejnour 
professed  to  find  a link  between  all  intellectual  beings  in  the 
existence  of  a certain  all-pervading  and  invisible  fluid  resem- 
bling electricity,  yet  distinct  from  the  known  operations  of 
that  mysterious  agency — a fluid  that  connected  thought  to 
thought  with  the  rapidity  and  precision  of  the  modern  tele- 
graph, and  the  influence  of  this  influence,  according  to 


Z4JV0JV/. 


221 


Mejnour,  extended  to  the  remotest  past — that  is  to  say, 
whenever  and  wheresoever  man  had  thought.  Thus,  if  the 
doctrine  were  true,  all  human  knowledge  became  attainable 
through  a medium  established  between  the  brain  of  the  indi- 
vidual inquirer  and  all  the  farthest  and  obscurest  regions  in 
the  universe  of  ideas.  Glyndon  was  surprised  to  find  Mejnour 
attached  to  the  abstruse  mysteries  which  the  Pythagoreans 
ascribed  to  the  occult  science  of  Numbers.  In  this  last,  new 
lights  glimmered  dimly  on  his  eyes  ; and  he  began  to  perceive 
that  even  the  power  to  predict,  or  rather  to  calculate,  results, 
might  by * 

^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 

^ ^ ^ •yv  •vr  •Tv  *7v 

But  he  observed  that  the  last  brief  process  by  which,  in  each 
of  these  experiments,  the  wonder  was  achieved,  Mejnour 
reserved  for  himself,  and  refused  to  communicate  the  secret. 
The  answer  he  obtained  to  his  remonstrances  on  this  head 
was  more  stern  than  satisfactory : — 

“ Dost  thou  think,”  said  Mejnour,  “ that  I would  give  to 
the  mere  pupil,  whose  qualities  are  not  yet  tried,  powers  that 
might  change  the  face  of  the  social  world The  last  secrets 
are  intrusted  only  to  him  of  whose  virtue  the  Master  is  con- 
vinced. Patience  ! It  is  labor  itself  that  is  the  great  purifier 
of  the  mind  ; and  by  degrees  the  secrets  will  grow  upon  thy- 
self as  thy  mind  becomes  riper  to  receive  them.” 

At  last,  Mejnour  professed  himself  satisfied  with  the  progress 
made  by  his  pupil.  “ The  hour  now  arrives,”  he  said,  “ when 
thou  mayst  pass  the  great  but  airy  barrier, — when  thou  mayst 
gradually  confront  the  terrible  Dweller  of  the  Threshold. 
Continue  thy  labors — continue  to  suppress  thine  impatience 
for  results  until  thou  canst  fathom  the  causes.  I leave  thee 
for  one  month;  if,  at  the  end  of  that  period,  when  I return, 
the  tasks  set  thee  are  completed,  and  thy  mind  prepared  by 
contemplation  and  austere  thought  for  the  ordeal,  I promise 
thee  the  ordeal  shall  commence.  One  caution  alone  I give 
thee : regard  it  as  a peremptory  command — Enter  not  this 
chamber  ! ” (They  were  then  standing  in  the  room  where  their 
experiments  had  been  chiefly  made,  and  in  which  Glyndon,  on 
the  night  he  had  sought  the  solitude  of  the  Mystic,  had  nearly 
fallen  a victim  to  his  intrusion.) 

“ Enter  .not  this  chamber  till  my  return  ; or,  above  all,  if  by 
any  search  for  materials  necessary  to  thy  toils,  thou  shouldst 
venture  hither,  forbear  to  light  the  naphtha  in  those  vessels, 
and  CO  open  the  vases  on  yonder  shelves.  I leave  the  key  of 

* Here  there  is  an  erasure  in  the  M§ 


222 


ZANONL 


the  room  in  thy  keeping,  in  order  to  try  thy  abstinence  and 
self-control.  Young  man,  this  very  temptation  is  a part  of 
thy  trial.” 

With  that,  Mejnour  placed  the  key  in  his  hands ; and  at 
sunset  he  left  the  castle. 

For  several  days  Glyndon  continued  immersed  in  em- 
ployments which  strained  to  the  utmost  all  the  faculties  of  his 
intellect.  Even  the  most  partial  success  depended  so  entirely 
on  the  abstraction  of  the  ^mind,  and  the  minuteness  of  its 
calculations,  that  there  was  scarcely  room  for  any  other  thought 
than  those  absorbed  in  the  occupation.  And  doubtless  this 
perpetual  strain  of  the  faculties  was  the  object  of  Mejnour  in 
works  that  did  not  seem  exactly  pertinent  to  the  purposes  in 
view.  As  the  study  of  the  elementary  mathematics,  for 
example,  is  not  so  profitable  in  the  solving  of  problems,  unless 
in  our  after-callings,  as  it  is  serviceable  in  training  the  intellect 
to  the  comprehension  and  analysis  of  general  truths. 

But  in  less  than  half  the  time  which  Mejnour  had  stated 
tor  the  duration  of  his  absence,  all  that  the  Mystic  had 
appointed  to  his  toils  was  completed  by  the  pupil ; and  then 
his  mind,  thus  relieved  from  the  drudgery  and  mechanism  of 
employment,  once  more  sought  occupation  in  dim  conjecture 
and  restless  fancies.  His  inquisitive  and  rash  nature  grew 
excited  by  the  prohibition  of  Mejnour,  and  he  found  himself 
gazing  too  often,  with  perturbed  and  daring  curiosity,  upon 
the  key  of  the  forbidden  chamber.  He  began  to  feel 
indignant  at  a trial  of  constancy  which  he  deemed  frivolous 
and  puerile.  What  nursery  tales  of  Bluebeard  and  his  closet 
were  revived  to  daunt  and  terrify  him  J How  could  the  mere 
walls  of  a chamber,  in  which  he  had  so  often  securely  pursued 
his  labors,  start  into  living  danger  ? If  haunted,  it  could  be 
but  by  those  delusions  which  Mejnour  had  taught  him  to 
despise.  A shadowy  lion — a chemical  phantasm ! Tush  ! 
he  lost  half  his  awe  of  Mejnour,  when  he  thought  that  by 
such  tricks  the  sage  could  practice  upon  the  very  intellect  he 
had  awakened  and  instructed  ! Still  he  resisted  the  impulses 
of  his  curiosity  and  his  pride,  and,  to  escape  from  their 
dictation,  he  took  long  rambles  on  the  hills  or  amid  the 
valleys  that  surrounded  the  castle  ; — seekingtby  bodily  fatigue 
to  subdue  the  unreposing  mind. 

One  day  suddenly  emerging  from  a dark  ravine,  he  came 
upon  one  of  those  Italian  scenes  of  rural  festivity  and  mirth 
in  which  the  classic  age  appears  to  revive.  It  w^as  a festival, 
partly  agricultural,  partly  religious,  held  yearly  by  the  peasants 


ZANONL 


223 


of  that  district.  Assembled  at  the  outskirts  of  a village^ 
animated  crowds,  just  returned  from  a procession  to  a neigh- 
boring  chapel,  were  now  forming  themselves  into  groups — the 
old  to  taste  the  vintage,  the  young  to  dance — all  to  be  gay 
and  happy.  This  sudden  picture  of  easy  joy,  and  careless 
ignorance,  contrasting  so  forcibly  with  the  intense  studies  and 
that  parching  desire  for  wisdom  which  had  so  long  made  up 
his  own  life,  and  burned  at  his  own  heart,  sensibly  affected 
Glyndon.  As  he  stood  aloof  and  gazing  on  them,  the  young 
man  felt  once  more  that  he  was  young  ! The  memory  of  all 
he  had  been  content  to  sacrifice  spoke  to  him  like  the  sharp 
voice  of  remorse.  The  flitting  forms  of  the  women  in  theiv 
picturesque  attire,  their  happy  laughter  ringing  through  the 
cool,  still  air  of  the  autumn  noon,  brought  back  to  the  heart, 
or  rather  perhaps  to  the  senses,  the  images  of  his  past  time, 
the  “golden  shepherd  hours,”  when  to  live  was  but  to  enjoy. 

He  approached  nearer  to  the  scene,  and  suddenly  a noisy 
group  swept  round  him ; and  Maestro  Paolo,  tapping  him 
familiarly  on  the  shoulder,  exclaimed,  in  a hearty  voice, 
“ Welcome,  Excellency  ! — we  are  rejoiced  to  see  you  among 
us.”  Glyndon  was  about  to  reply  to  this  salutation,  when  his 
eyes  rested  upon  the  face  of  a young  girl  leaning  on  Paolo’s 
arm,  of  a beauty  so  attractive,  that  his  color  rose  and  his 
heart  beat  as  he  encountered  her  gaze.  Her  eyes  sparkled 
with  a roguish  and  petulant  mirth,  her  parted  lips  showed 
teeth  like  pearls, — as  if  impatient  at  the  pause  of  her  com- 
panion from  the  revel  of  the  rest,  her  little  foot  beat  the 
ground  to  a measure  that  she  half-hummed,  half-chanted. 
Paolo  laughed  as  he  saw  the  effect  the  girl  had  produced  upon 
the  young  foreigner. 

“ Will  you  not  dance.  Excellency  ? Come,  lay  aside  your 
greatness,  and  be  merry,  like  us  poor  devils.  See  how  our 
pretty  Fillide  is  longing  for  a partner.  Take  compassion  on 
her.” 

Fillide  pouted  at  this  speech ; and  disengaging  her  arm 
from  Paolo’s,  turned  away,  but  threw  over  her  shoulder  a 
glance  half  inviting,  half  defying.  Glyndon,  almost  involunta- 
rily, advanced  to  her,  and  addressed  her. 

Oh  yes,  he  addresses  her ! She  looks  down,  and  smiles. 
Paolo  leaves  them  to  themselves,  sauntering  off  with  a 
devil-me-carish  air.  Fillide  speaks  now,  and  looks  up  at  the 
scholar’s  face  with  arch  invitation.  He  shakes  his  head  ; 
Fillide  laughs,  and  her  laugh  is  silvery.  She  points  to  a gay 
mountaineer,  who  is  tripping  up  to  her  merrily.  Why  does 


224 


I.ANONI. 


Glyndon  feel  jealous  ? Why,  when  she  speaks  again,  does  he 
shake  his  head  no  more  ? He  offers  his  hand  ; Fillide  blushes, 
and  takes  it  with  a demure  coquetry.  What ! is  it  so,  indeed ! 
They  whirl  into  the  noisy  circle  of  the  revelers.  Ha ! ha ! 
is  not  this  better  than  distilling  herbs,  and  breaking  thy  brains 
on  Pythagorean  numbers  ? How  lightly  Fillide  bounds  along  ! 
How  her  lithesome  waist  supples  itself  to  thy  circling  arm  ! 
Tara-ra-tara,  ta-tara,  rara-ra  ! What  the  devil  is  in  the  meas- 
ure, that  it  makes  the  blood  course  like  quicksilver  through 
the  veins  ? Was  there  ever  a pair  of  eyes  like  Fillide’s  ? 
Nothing  of  the  cold  stars  there  ! Yet  how  they  twinkle  and 
laugh  at  thee  ! And  that  rosy,  pursed-up  mouth,  that  will 
answer  so  sparingly  to  thy  flatteries,  as  if  words  were  a waste 
of  time,  and  kisses  were  their  proper  language.  Oh,  pupil  of 
Mejnour  ! oh,  would-be  Rosicrucian — Platonist — Magian — I 
know  not  what ! I am  ashamed  of  thee  ! What,  in  the  names 
of  Averroes,  and  Burri,  and  Agrippa,  and  Hermes,  have 
become  of  thy  austere  contemplations  ? Was  it  for  this  thou 
didst  resign  Viola } I don’t  think  thou  hast  the  smallest 
recollection  of  the  elixir  or  the  Cabala.  Take  care  ! What 
are  you  about,  sir Why  do  you  clasp  that  small  hand 
locked  in  your  own  ? Why  do  you — Tara-rara  tara-ra,  tara- 
rara-ra,  rara-ra,  ta-ra  a-ra  ! Keep  your  eyes  off  those  slender 
ankles,  and  that  crimson  boddice ! Tara-rara-ra ! There 
they  go  again  ! And  now  they  rest  under  the  broad  trees. 
The  revel  has  whirled  away  from  them.  They  hear — or  do 
they  not  hear — the  laughter  at  the  distance  ? They  see — or 
if  they  have  their  eyes  about  them,  they  should  see — couple 
after  couple  gliding  by,  love-talking  and  love-looking.  But  I 
will  lay  a wager,  as  they  sit  under  that  tree,  and  the  round 
sun  goes  down  behind  the  mountains,  that  they  see  or  hear 
very  little  except  themselves ! 

“ Hollo,  Signor  Excellency  ! and  how  does  your  partner 
please  you  ? Come  and  join  our  feast,  loiterers ; one  dances 
more  merrily  after  wine.” 

Down  goes  the  round  sun ; up  comes  the  autumn  moon. 
Tara,  tara,  rarara,  tarara-ra  ! Dancing  again  ; is  it  a dancCc 
or  some  movement  gayer,  noisier,  wilder  still  ^ How  they 
glance  and  gleam  through  the  night  shadows — those  flitting 
forms  ! What  confusion  ! — what  order  ! Ha,  that  is  the 
Tarantula  dance  ; Maestro  Paolo  foots  it  bravely  ! Diavolo, 
what  fury  ! the  Tarantula  has  stung  them  all.  Dance  or  die  ; 

it  is  fury — the  Corybantes — the  Maenads — the . Ho,  ho; 

more  wine  I the  Sabbat  of  the  Witches  at  Benevento  is  a joke 


ZANOm, 


X2«| 

to  this ! From  cloud  to  cloud  wanders  the  moon — now  shin 
mg,  now  lost.  Dimness  while  the  maiden  blushes ; light  whe» 
the  maiden  smiles. 

“ Fillide,  thou  art  an  enchantress  ! ” 

“ Buona  notte^  Excellency ; you  will  see  me  again  ! ’’ 

“ Ah,  young  man,”  said  an  old  decrepit,  hollow-eyed  octo* 
genarian,  leaning  on  his  staff,  “ make  the  best  of  your  youth. 
I,  too,  once  had  a Fillide  ! I was  handsomer  than  you  then  I 
Alas  ! if  we  could  be  always  young ! ” 

“ Always  young  ! ” Glyndon  started,  as  he  turned  his  gaze 
from  the  fresh  fair  rosy  face  of  the  girl,  and  saw  the  eyes 
dropping  rheum — the  yellow  wrinkled  skin — the  tottering 
frame  of  the  old  man. 

“ Ha,  ha ! ” said  the  decrepit  creature,  hobbling  neai  to 
him,  and  with  a malicious  laugh.  “ Yet  I,  too,  was  young 
once  ! Give  me  a baioccho  for  a glass  of  aqua  vita  ! ” 

“ Tara,  rara,  ra-rara,  tara,  rara-ra  ! There  dances  Youth  1 
Wrap  thy  rags  round  thee,  and  totter  off,  Old  Age  1 ” 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Whilest  Calidore  does  follow  that  faire  mayd, 

Unmindful  of  his  vows  and  high  beheast 
Which  by  the  Faerie  Queene  was  on  him  layd. 

Spenser,  Faerie  Queene^  cant.  x.  s.  I. 

It  was  that  gray,  indistinct,  struggling  interval  between  the 
night  and  the  dawn,  when  Clarence  stood  once  more  in  his 
chamber.  The  abstruse  calculations  lying  on  his  table  caught 
his  eye,  and  filled  him  with  a sentiment  of  weariness  and 
distaste.  But — “ Alas,  if  we  could  be  always  young  ! Oh, 
thou  horrid  specter  of  the  old  rheum-eyed  man  ! What  appa- 
rition can  the  mystic  chamber  shadow  forth  more  ugly  or 
more  hateful  than  thou  ? Oh  yes  ; if  we  could  be  always 
young ! But  not  (thinks  the  Neophyte  now) — not  to  labor 
forever  at  these  crabbed  figures  and  these  cold  compounds 
of  herbs  and  drugs.  No  : but  to  enjoy,  to  love,  to  revel ! 
What  should  be  the  companions  of  youth  but  pleasure  ?— And 
the  gift  of  eternal  youth  may  be  mine  this  very  hour  ! What 
means  this  prohibition  of  Mejnour’s  ? Is  it  not  of  the  same 
complexion  as  his  ungenerous  reserve  even  in  the  minutest 
secrets  of  chemistry,  or  the  numbers  of  his  Cabala  ? — compel- 
ling me  to  perform  all  the  toils,  and  yet  withholding  from  me 
IS 


226 


ZANONL 


the  knowledge  of  the  crowning  result  ? No  doubt  he  will,  on 
his  return,  show  me  that  the  great  mystery  can  be  attained ; 
but  will  still  forbid  me  to  attain  it.  Is  it  not  as  if  he  desired 
to  keep  my  youth  the  slave  to  his  age  ? — to  make  me  depen- 
dent solely  on  himself  ? — to  bind  me  to  a journeyman’s  service 
by  perpetual  excitement  to  curiosity,  and  the  sight  of  the  fruits 
he  places  beyond  my  lips  ? ” These,  and  many  reflections 
still  more  repining,  disturbed  and  irritated  him.  Heated  with 
wine — excited  by  the  wild  revels  he  had  left — he  was  unable 
to  sleep.  The  image  of  that  revolting  Old  Age  which  Time, 
unless  defeated,  must  bring  upon  himself,  quickened  the 
eagerness  of  his  desire  for  the  dazzling  and  imperishable 
Youth  he  ascribed  to  Zanoni.  The  prohibition  only  served 
to  create  a spirit  of  defiance.  The  reviving  day,  laughing 
jocundly  through  his  lattice,  dispelled  all  the  fears  and  super- 
stitions that  belong  to  night.  The  mystic  chamber  presented 
to  his  imagination  nothing  to  differ  from  any  other  apartment 
in  the  castle.  What  foul  or  malignant  apparition  could  harm 
him  in  the  light  of  that  blessed  sun  ! . It  was  the  peculiar, 
and  on  the  whole  most  unhappy,  contradiction  in  Glyndon’s 
nature,  that  while  his  reasonings  led  him  to  doubt — and  doubt 
rendered  him  in  moral  conduct  irresolute  and  unsteady — he 
was  physically  brave  to  rashness.  Nor  is  this  uncommon  ; 
skepticism  and  presumption  are  often  twins.  When  a man 
of  this  character  determines  on  any  action,  personal  fear 
never  deters  him  ; and  for  the  moral  fear,  any  sophistry  suffi- 
ces to  self-will.  Almost  without  analyzing  himself  the  mental 
process  by  which  his  nerves  hardened  themselves  and  his 
limbs  moved,  he  traversed  the  corridor,  gained  Mejnour’s 
apartment,  and  opened  the  forbidden  door.  All  was  as  he 
had  been  accustomed  to  see  it,  save  that  on  a table  in  the 
center  of  the  room  lay  open  a large  volume.  He  approached, 
and  gazed  on  the  characters  on  the  page ; they  were  in  a 
cipher,  the  study  of  which  had  made  a part  of  his  labors. 
With  but  slight  difficulty  he  imagined  that  he  interpreted  the 
meaning  of  the  first  sentences,  and  that  they  ran  thus  : — 

“ To  quaff  the  inner  life,  is  to  see  the  outer  life  ; to  live  in 
defiance  of  time,  is  to  live  in  the  whole.  He  who  discovers 
the  elixir,  discovers  what  lies  in  space ; for  the  spirit  that 
vivifies  the  frame  strengthens  the  senses.  There  is  attraction 
in  the  elementary  principle  of  light.  In  the  lamps  of  Rosi* 
crucius,  the  fire  is  the  pure  elementary  principle.  Kindle  the 
lamps  while  thou  openest  the  vessel  that  contains  the  elixir, 
and  the  light  attracts  toward  thee  those  beings  whose  life  is 


ZAisfom, 


2d) 

that  light.  Beware  of  Fear.  Fear  is  the  deadliest  enemy  to 
Knowledge.”  Here  the  ciphers  changed  their  character, 
and  became  incomprehensible.  But  had  he  not  read  enough  ? 
Did  not  the  last  sentence  suffice  ? — “ Beware  of  Fear ! ” It 
was  as  if  Mejnour  had  purposely  left  the  page  open — as  if 
the  trial  was,  in  truth,  the  reverse  of  the  one  pretended — as 
if  the  Mystic  had  designed  to  make  experiment  of  his  courage 
while  affecting  but  that  of  his  forbearance.  Not  Boldness,  but 
Fear,  was  the  deadliest  enemy  to  Knowledge.  He  moved  to 
the  shelves  on  which  the  crystal  vases  were  placed  ; with  an 
untrembling  hand  he  took  from  one  of  them  the  stopper,  and 
a delicious  odor  suddenly  diffused  itself  through  the  room. 
The  air  sparkled  as  if  with  a diamond  dust.  A sense  of 
unearthly  delight — of  an  existence  that  seemed  all  spirit, 
flashed  through  his  whole  frame  ; and  a faint,  low,  but  exqui- 
site music  crept,  thrilling,  through  the  chamber.  At  this 
moment  he  heard  a voice  in  the  corridor,  calling  on  his  name  ; 
and  presently  there  was  a knock  on  the  door  without.  “ Are 
you  there.  Signor  ? ” said  the  clear  tones  of  Maestro  Paolo. 
Glyndon  hastily  reclosed  and  replaced  the  vial ; and  bidding 
Paolo  await  him  in  his  own  apartment,  tarried  till  he  heard 
the  intruder’s  steps  depart ; he  then  reluctantly  quitted  the 
room.  As  he  locked  the  door,  he  still  heard  the  dying  strain 
of  that  fairy  music  ; and  with  a light  step,  and  a joyous  heart, 
he  repaired  to  Paolo,  inly  resolving  to  visit  again  the 
chamber  at  an  hour  when  his  experiment  would  be  safe  from 
interruption. 

As  he  crossed  his  threshold,  Paolo  started  back,  and 
exclaimed,  -^Why,  Excellency!  I scarcely  recognize  youl 
Amusement  I see  is  a great  beautifier  to  the  young.  Yesterday 
you  looked  so  pale  and  haggard ; but  Fillide’s  merry  eyes  have 
done  more  for  you  than  the  philosopher’s  stone  (Saints,  fon 
give  me  for  naming  it)  ever  did  for  the  wizards.”  And  Glyn- 
don, glancing  at  the  old  Venetian  mirror,  as  Pdolo  spoke, 
was  scarcely  less  startled  than  Paolo  himself  at  the  change  in 
his  own  mien  and  bearing.  His  form,  before  bent  with 
thought,  seemed  to  him  taller  by  half  the  head,  so  lithesome 
and  erect  rose  his  slender  stature ; his  eyes  glowed,  his  cheeks 
bloomed  with  health  and  the  innate  and  pervading  pleasure. 
If  the  mere  fragrance  of  the  elixir  was  thus  potent,  well  might 
the  alchemists  have  ascribed  life  and  youth  to  the  draught  I 
‘‘You  must  forgive  me.  Excellency,  for  disturbing  you,” 
said  Pdolo,  producing  a letter  from  his  pouch ; “ but  our 
Patron  has  just  written  to  me  to  say  that  he  will  be  here  to* 


823 


ZANONl 


morrow,  and  desired  me  to  loose  not  a moment  in  giving  to 
yourself  this  billet,  which  he  inclosed,” 

“Who  brought  the  letter?” 

“ A horseman,  who  did  not  wait  for  any  reply.” 

Glyndon  opened  the  letter  and  read  as  follows 

“ I return  a week  sooner  than  I had  intended  and  you  will 
expect  me  to-morrow.  You  will  then  enter  on  the  ordeal  you 
desire ; but  remember  that,  in  doing  so,  you  must  reduce 
Being,  as  far  as  possible,  into  Mind.  The  senses  must  be 
mortified  and  subdued — not  the  whisper  of  one  passion  heard. 
Thou  mayst  be  master  of  the  Cabala  and  the  Chemistry ; but 
thou  must  be  master  also  over  the  flesh  and  the  blood — over 
Love  and  Vanity,  Ambition  and  Hate.  I will  trust  to  find 
thee  so.  Fast  and  meditate  till  we  meet  I ” 

'C 

Glyndon  crumpled  the  letter  in  his  hand  with  a smile  of 
disdain.  What ! more  drudgery — more  abstinence  ! Youth 
without  love  and  pleasure ! Ha,  ha ! baffled  Mejnour,  thy 
pupil  shall  gain  thy  secrets  without  thine  aid ! 

“ And  Fillide ! I passed  her  cottage  in  my  way — she 
blushed  and  sighed  when  I jested  her  about  you,  Excel- 
lency ! ” 

“ Well,  Pdolo ! I thank  thee  for  so  charming  an  introduc- 
tion. Thine  must  be  a rare  life.” 

“ Ah,  Excellency,  while  we  are  young,  nothing  like  adven- 
ture— except  love,  wine,  and  laughter ! ” 

“Very  true.  Farewell,  Maestro-  Pdolo;  we  will  talk  more 
with  each  other  in  a few  days.” 

All  that  morning  Glyndon  was  almost  overpowered  with 
the  new  sentiment  of  happiness  that  had  entered  into  him. 
He  roamed  into  the  woods,  and  he  felt  a pleasure  that  resem- 
bled his  earlier  life  of  an  artist,  but  a pleasure  yet  more  sub- 
tle and  vivid,  in  the  various  colors  of  the  autumn  foliage. 
Certainly,  Nature  seemed  to  be  brought  closer  to  him;  he 
comprehended  better  all  that  Mejnour  had  often  preached  to 
him  of  the  mystery  of  sympathies  and  attractions.  He  was 
about  to  enter  into  the  same  law  as  those  mute  children  of 
the  forest ! He  was  to  know  the  renewal  of  life;  the  seasons 
that  chilled  ti  winter  should  yet  bring  again  the  bloom  and 
the  mirth  of  spring.  Man’s  common  existence  is  as  one  year 
to  the  vegetable  world : he  has  his  spring,  his  summer,  his 
autumn,  and  winter — but  only  once.  But  the  giant  oaiks 
round  him  go  through  a revolving  series  of  verdure  and  youth, 


ZANONI. 


229 


and  the  green  of  the  centenarian  is  as  vivid  in  the  bearhs  of 
May  as  that  of  the  sapling  by  its  side,  “ Mine  shall  be  your 
spring,  but  not  your  winter ! ’’  exclaimed  the  aspirant. 

Wrapt  in  these  sanguine  and  joyous  reveries,  Glyndon, 
quitting  the  woods,  found  himself  amid  cultivated  fields  and 
vineyards  to  which  his  footsteps  had  not  before  wandered  : 
and  there  stood,  by  the  skirts  of  a green  lane  that  reminded 
him  of  verdant  England,  a modest  house — half  cottage  half 
farm.  The  door  was  open,  and  he  saw  a girl  at  work  with  her 
distaff.  She  looked  up,  uttered  a slight  cry,  and,  tripping 
gayly  into  the  lane  to  his  side,  he*  recognized  the  dark-eyed 
Fillide. 

“ Hist ! ” she  said,  archly  putting  her  finger  to  her  lip ; “ do 
not  speak  loud — my  mother  is  asleep  within ; and  I knew  you 
would  come  to  see  me.  It  is  kind  ! ” 

Glyndon,  with  a little  embarrassment,  accepted  the  com- 
pliment to  his  kindness,  which  he  did  not  exactly  deserve. 
“ You  have  thought,  then,  of  me,  fair  Fillide  ? ” 

“ Yes,”  answered  the  girl,  coloring,  but  with  that  frank,  bold 
ingenuousness  which  characterizes  the  females  of  Italy,  es- 
pecially of  the  lower  class,  and  in  the  southern  provinces — 
“ Oh,  yes  ! I have  thought  of  little  else.  Paolo  said  he  knew 
you  would  visit  me.” 

“ And  what  relation  is  Pdolo  to  you  ? ” 

‘‘  None  : but  a good  friend  to  us  all.  My  brother  is  one  of 
his  band.” 

“ One  of  his  band  ! — A robber  ? ** 

“ We,  of  the  mountains;  do  not  call  a mountaineer  ‘ a 
robber,’  signor.” 

“ I ask  pardon.  Do  you  not  tremble  sometimes  for  your 
brother’s  life  The  law ” 

“ Law  never  ventures  into  these  defiles.  Tremble  for  him  ! 
No.  My  father  and  grandsire  were  of  the  same  calling.  I 
often  wish  I were  a man  ! ” 

“ By  these  lips,  I am  enchanted  that  your  wish  cannot  be 
realized.” 

“Fie,  signor  ! and  do  you  really  love  me  ? ” 

“ With  my  whole  heart ! ” 

“ And  I thee  ! ” said  the  girl,  with  a candor  that  seemed  in- 
nocent, as  she  suffered  him  to  clasp  her  hand. 

“ But,”  she  added,  “ thou  wilt  soon  leave  us;  and  I — — ” 
She  stopped  short,  and  the  tears  stood  in  her  eyes.  There 
was  something  dangerous  in  this,  it  must  be  confessed. 
Certainly  Fillide  had  not  the  seraphic  loveliness  of  ''"\ola: 


*30 


ZANONI. 


but  hers  was  a beauty  that  equally,  at  least,  touched  the 
senses.  Perhaps  Glyndon  had  never  really  loved  Viola  ; 
perhaps  the  feelings  with  which  she  had  inspired  him  were 
not  of  that  ardent  character  which  deserves  the  name  of  love. 
However  that  be,  he  thought,  as  he  gazed  on  those  dark 
eyes,  that  he  had  never  loved  before. 

“ And  couldst  thou  not  leave  thy  mountains  ? ” he  whispered, 
as  he  drew  yet  nearer  to  her. 

“ Dost  thou  ask  me  ? ” she  said,  retreating,  and  looking  him 
steadfastly  in  the  face.  “ Dost  thou  know  what  we  daughters 
of  the  mountains  are  ? You  say,  smooth  cavaliers  of  cities 
seldom  mean  what  you  speak.  With  you,  love  is  amusement ; 
with  us,  it  is  life.  Leave  the;se  mountains  ! Well  .^  1 should 
not  leave  my  nature.” 

“ Keep  thy  nature  ever — it  is  a sweet  one.” 

“Yes,  sweet  while  thou  art  true  ; stern  if  thou  art  faithless. 
Shall  I tell  thee  what  I — what  the  girls  of  this  country, 
are  ? Daughters  of  men,  whom  you  call  robbers,  we  aspire  to 
be  the  companions  of  our  lovers  or  our  hosbands.  We  love 
ardently,  we  own  it  boldly.  We  stand  by  your  side  in  danger ; 
we  serve  you  as  slaves  in  safety : we  never  change,  and  we  re- 
sent change.  You  may  reproach,  strike  us,  trample  us  as  a 
dog, — we  bear  all  without  a murmur  , betray  us,  and  no  tiger 
is  more  relentless.  Be  true,  and  our  hearts  reward  you  ; be 
false,  and  our  hands  revenge  ! — Lost  thou  love  me  now  .?  ” 
During  this  speech,  the  Italian’s  countenance  had  most 
eloquently  aided  her  words — by  turns  soft,  frank,  fierce — and, 
at  the  last  question,  she  inclined  her  head  humbly,  and  stood, 
as  in  fear  of  his  reply,  before  him.  The  stern,  brave,  wild 
spirit,  in  which  what  seekied  unfeminine  was  yet,  if  I may  so 
say,  still  womanly,  did  r.ot  recoil,  it  rather  captivated  Glyndon. 
He  answered  readily,  briefly,  and  freely — “ Fillide — yes  ! ” 

Oh,  “ yes  ! ” forsooth,  Clarence  Glyndon  ! Every  light 
nature  answers  “ yes  ” lightly  to  such  a question  from  lips  so 
rosy  ! Have  a caie — have  a care  ! Why  the  deuce,  Mejnour, 
do  you  leave  youv  pupil  of  four-and-twenty  to  the  mercy  ci 
these  wild  cats-a^mountain  ! Preach  fast,  and  abstinence,  the 
sublime  renunciation  of  the  cheats  of  the  senses  ! Very  weW 
in  you,  sir.  Heaven  knows  how  many  ages  old  ! but  at  four- 
and-twenty,  your  Hierophant  would  have  kept  you  out  oi 
Fillide’s  way,  or  you  would  have  had  small  taste  for  the 
Cabala  ! 

And  so  they  stood,  and  talked,  and  vowed,  and  whispered, 
till  the  girl’s  mother  made  some  noise  within  the  house,  and 


ZANONI, 


231 


f illide  bounded  back  to  the  distaff,  her  finger  once  more  on 
her  lip. 

“ There  is  more  magic  in  Fillide  then  in  Mejnour,”  said 
Glyndon  to  himself,  walking  gayly  home  ; “ yet,  on  second 
thoughts,  I know  not  if  I quite  so  well  like  a character  so 
ready  for  revenge  ! But  he  who  has  the  real  secret  can  baffle 
even  the  vengeance  of  a woman,  and  disarm  all  danger ! ” 
Sirrah  ! dost  thou  even  already  meditate  the  possibility  of 
treason  ? Oh,  well  said  Zanoni,  “ to  pour  pure  water  into  the 
muddy  well  does  but  disturb  the  mud.” 


CHAPTER  VII. 

— — Cemis,  custodia  qualis 

Vestibulo  sedeat  ? facies  quae  limina  servet?  • 

iENEID,  lib.  vi.  475. 

And  it  is  profound  night.  All  is  at  rest  within  the  old 
castle — all  is  breathless  under  the  melancholy  stars.  Now  is 
the  time.  Mejnour  with  his  austere  wisdom — Mejnour,  the 
enemy  to  love — Mejnour,  whose  eye  will  read  thy  heart,  and 
refuse  thee  the  promised  secrets,  because  the  sunny  face  of 
Fillide  disturbs  the  lifeless  shadow  that  he  calls  repose. 
Mejnour  comes  to-morrow ! Seize  the  night ! Beware  of 
fear  ! Never,  or  this  hour ! So,  brave  youth, — brave  despite 
all  thy  errors — so,  with  a steady  pulse,  thy  hand  unlocks 
Dnce  more  the  forbidden  door ! 

He  placed  his  lamp  on  the  table  beside  the  book,  which 
still  lay  there  opened ; he  turned  over  the  leaves,  but  could 
not  decipher  their  meaning,  till  he  came  to  the  following 
passage : 

“When,  then,  the  pupil  is  thus  initiated  and  prepared,  let 
him  open  the  casement,  light  the  lamps,  and  bathe  his 
temples  with  the  elixir.  He  must  beware  how  he  presume 
^^et  to  quaff  the  volatile  and  fiery  spirit.  To  taste  till  repeated 
inhalations  have  accustomed  the  frame  gradually  to  the 
ecstatic  liquid,  is  to  know  not  life,  but  death.” 

He  could  penetrate  no  further  into  the  instructions ; the 
cipher  again  changed.  He  now  looked  steadily  and  earnestly 
round  the  chamber.  The  moonlight  came  quietly  through 
the  lattice  as  his  hand  opened  it,  and  seemed,  as  it  rested  on 

* See  you,  what  porter  sits  within  the  vestibule  what  faqe  watches  at  the 
threshold  ? 


232 


ZANONI. 


the  floor  and  filled  the  walls,  like  the  presence  of  some 
ghostly  and  mournful  Power.  He  ranged  the  mystic  lamps 
(nine  in  number)  round  the  center  of  the  room,  and  lighted 
them  one  by  one.  A flame  of  silvery  and  a^ure  tints  sprung 
up  from  each,  and  lighted  the  apartment  with  a calm  and  yet" 
most  dazzling  splendor ; but  presently  this  light  grew  more 
soft  and  dim,  as  a thin  gray  cloud,  like  a mist,  gradually 
spread  over  the  room  ; and  an  icy  thrill  shot  through  the 
heart  of  the  Englishman,  and  quickly  gathered  over  him  like 
the  coldness  of  death.  Instinctively  aware  of  his  danger,  he 
tottered,  though  with  difficulty,  for  his  limbs  seemed  rigid  and 
stone-like,  to  the  shelf  that  contained  the  crystal  vials ; 
hastily  he  inhaled  the  spirit,  and  laved  his  temples  with  the 
sparkling  liquid.  The  same  sensation  of  vigor  and  youth, 
and  joy,  and  airy  lightness,  that  he  had  felt  in  the  morning, 
instantaneously  replaced  the  deadly  numbness  that  just  before 
had  invaded  the  citadel  of  fife.  He  stood,  with  his  arms 
folded  on  his  bosom,  erect  and  dauntless,  to  watch  what 
should  ensue. 

The  vapor  had  now  assumed  almost  the  thickness  and 
seeming  consistency  of  a snow-cloud ; the  lamps  piercing  it 
like  stars.  And  now  he  distinctly  saw  shapes,  somewhat 
resembling  in  outline  those  of  the  human  form,  gliding  slowly 
and  with  regular  evolutions  through  the  cloud.  They 
appeared  bloodless ; their  bodies  were  transparent,  and 
contracted  or  expanded,  like  the  folds  of  a serpent.  As  they 
moved  in  majestic  order,  he  heard  alow  sound — the  ghost,  as 
it  were,  of  voice — which  each  caught  and  echoed  from  the 
other ; a low  sound,  but  musical,  which  seemed  the  chant  of 
some  unspeakable  tranquil  joy.  None  of  these  apparitions 
heeded  him.  His  intense  longing  to  accost  them,  to  be 
of  them,  to  make  one  of  this  movement  of  aerial  happiness — 
for  such  it  seemed  to  him — made  him  stretch  forth  his  arms 
and  seek  to  cry  aloud,  but  only  an  inarticulate  whisper  passed 
his  lips ; and  the  movement  and  the  music  went  on  the  same 
as  if  the  mortal  were  not  there.  Slowly  they  glided  round  and 
aloft,  till,  in  the  same  majestic  order,  one  after  one,  they 
floated  through  the  casement,  and  were  lost  in  the  moonlight ; 
then,  as  his  eyes  followed  them,  the  casement  became  dark 
ened  with  some  object  undistinguishable  at  the  first  gaze,  but 
which  sufficed  mysteriously  to  change  into  ineffable  horrot 
the  delight  he  had  before  experienced.  By  degrees,  this 
object  shaped  itself  to  his  sight.  It  was  as  that  of  a human 
head,  covered  with  a dark  veil,  through  which  glared,  witb 


ZANONL 


233 


lurid  and  demoniac  fire,  eyes  that  froze  the  marrow  of  his 
bones.  Nothing  else  of  the  face  was  distinguishable — noth* 
ing  but  those  intolerable  eyes ; but  his  terror,  that  even  at  • 
the  first  seemed  beyond  nature  to  endure,  was  increased  a 
thousand-fold,  when,  after  a pause,  the  phantom  glided 
slowly  into  the  chamber.  The  cloud  retreated  from  it  as  it 
advanced ; the  bright  lamps  grew  wan,  and  flickered  rest* 
lessly  as  at  the  breath  of  its  presence.  Its  form  was  veiled 
as  the  face,  but  the  outline  was  that  of  a female  ; yet  it  moved 
not  as  move  even  the  ghosts  that  simulate  the  living;  it 
seemed  rather  to  crawl  as  some  vast  misshapen  reptile  ; and 
pausing,  at  length  it  cowered  beside  the  table  which  held  the 
mystic  volume,  and  again*  fixed  its  eyes  through  the  filmy 
veil  on  the  rash  invoker.  All  fancies,  the  most  grotesque,  of 
Monk  or  Painter  in  the  early  North,  would  have  failed  to 
give  to  the  visage  of  imp  or  fiend  that  aspect  of  deadly 
malignity  which  spoke  to  the  shuddering  nature  in  those  eyes 
alone.  All  else  so  dark — shrouded — veiled  and  lava-like. 
But  that  burning  glare  so  intense,  so  livid,  yet  so  living,  had 
in  it  something  that  was  almost  human^  in  its  passion  of  hate 
and  mockery — something  that  served  to  show  that  the 
shadowy  Horror  was  not  all  a spirit,  but  partook  of  matter 
enough,  at  least,  to  make  it  more  deadly  and  fearful  an 
enemy  to  material  forms.  As,  clinging  with  the  grasp  of 
agony  to  the  wall — his  hair  erect— his  eye-balls  starting,  he 
still  gazed  back  upon  that  appalling  gaze — the  Image  spoke 
to  him — his  soul  rather  than  his  ear  comprehended  the  words 
it  said. 

“ Thou  hast  entered  the  immeasurable  region.  I am  the 
Dweller  of  the  Threshold.  What  wouldst  thou  with  me  ? 
Silent  ? Dost  thou  fear  me  } Am  I not  thy  beloved  } Is  it 
not  for  me  that  thou  hast  rendered  up  the  delights  of  thy 
race  ^ Wouldst  thou  be  wise  ? Mine  is  the  wisdom  of  the 
countless  ages.  Kiss  me,  my  mortal  lover.”  And  the 
Horror  crawled  nearer  and  nearer  to  him ; it  crept  to  his 
side,  its  breath  breathed  upon  his  cheek ! With  a sharp  cry 
he  fell  to  the  earth  insensible,  and  knew  no  more  till,  far  in 
the  noon  of  the  next  day,  he  opened  his  eyes  and  found  him- 
self in  his  bed, — the  glorious  sun  streaming  through  his 
lattice,  and  the  bandit  Paolo  by  his  side,  engaged  in  polishing 
his  carbine,  and  whistling  a Calabrian  love-air. 


*34 


ZANONL 


I 

j 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Thus  man  pursues  his  weary  calling, 

And  wrings  the  hard  life  from  the  sky, 

While  happiness  unseen  is  falling 
Down  from  God’s  bosom  silently. 

Schiller. 

In  one  of  those  islands  whose  history  the  imperishable 
literature  and  renown  of  Athens  yet  invest  with  melancholy 
interest,  and  on  which  Nature,  in  whom  “there  is  nothing 
melancholy,”  still  bestows  a glory  of  scenery  and  climate 
equally  radiant  for  the  freeman  or  the  slave — the  Ionian,  the 
Venetian,  the  Gaul,  the  Turk,  or  the  restless  Briton, — Zanoni 
had  fixed  his  bridal  Home.  There  the  air  carries  with 
it  the  perfumes  of  the  plains  for  miles  along  the  blue 
translucent  deep.*  Seen  from  one  of  its  green  sloping 
heights,  the  island  he  had  selected  seemed  one  delicious 
garden.  The  towers  and  turrets  of  its  capital  gleaming 
amid  groves  of  oranges  and  lemons ; — vineyards  and  olive- 
woods  filling  up  the  valleys,  and  clambering  along  the  hill- 
sides ; and  villa,  farm  and  cottage  covered  with  luxuriant 
trellises  of  dark-green  leaves  and  purple  fruit.  For,  there, 
the  prodigal  beauty  yet  seems  half  to  justify  those  graceful 
superstitions  of  a creed  that,  too  enamoured  of  earth,  rather 
brought  the  deities  to  man,  than  raised  the  man  to  their  less 
alluring  and  less  voluptuous  Olympus. 

And  still  to  the  fishermen,  weaving  yet  their  antique  dances 
on  the  sand — to  the  maiden  adorning  yet,  with  many  a silver 
fibula,  her  glossy  tresses  under  the  tree  that  overshadows  her 
tranquil  cot — the  same  Great  Mother  that  watched  over  the 
wise  of  Samos — the  democracy  of  Corcyra — the  graceful  and 
deep-taught  loveliness  of  Miletus — smiles  as  graciously  as  of 
yore.  For  the  North,  philosophy  and  freedom  are  essentials 
to  human  happiness.  In  the  lands  which  Aphrodite  rose 
from  the  waves  to  govern,  as  the  Seasons,  hand  in  hand, 
stood  to  welcome  her  on  the  shores,!  Nature  is  all-sufficient. 

The  isle  which  Zanoni  had  selected  was  one  of  the  love- 
liest in  that  divine  sea.  His  abode,  at  some  distance  from 


♦ See  Dr.  Holland’s  Travels  to  the  Ionian  Isles,  etc.,  p.  i8. 
t Homeric  Hymn. 


235 


the  city,  but  near  one  of  the  creeks  on  the  shore,  belonged  to 
a Venetian,  and  though  small,  had  more  of  elegance  than  the 
natives  ordinarily  cared  for.  On  the  seas,  and  in  sight,  rode 
his  vessel.  His  Indians,  as  before,  ministered  in  mute 
gravity  to  the  service  of  the  household.  No  spot  could  be 
more  beautiful — no  solitude  less  invaded.  To  the  mysterious 
knowledge  of  Zanoni — to  the  harmless  ignorance  of  Viola 
— the  babbling  and  garish  world  of  civilized  man  was  alike 
unheeded.  The  loving  sky  and  the  lovely  earth  are  com- 
panions enough  to  Wisdom  and  to  Ignorance  while  they  love  ! 

Although,  as  I have  before  said,  there  was  nothing  in  the 
visible  occupations  of  Zanoni  that  betrayed  a cultivator  of  the 
occult  sciences,  his  habits  were  those  of  a man  who  remem- 
bers or  reflects.  He  loved  to  roam  alone,  chiefly  at  dawn  or 
at  night,  when  the  moon  was  clear  (especially  in  each  month, 
at  its  rise  and  full),  miles  and  miles  away  over  the  rich 
inlands  of  the  island,  and  to  cull  herbs  and  flowers,  which 
he  hoarded  with  jealous  care.  Sometimes,  at  the  dead  of 
night,  Viola  would  wake  by  an  instinct  that  told  her  he  was 
not  by  her  side,  and,  stretching  out  her  arms,  find  that  the 
instinct  had  not  deceived  her.  But  she  early  saw  that  he  was 
reserved  on  his  peculiar  habits,  and  if  at  times  a chill,  a 
foreboding,  a suspicious  awe  crept  over  her,  she  forbore  to 
question  him.  But  his  rambles  were  not  always  unaccom- 
panied— he  took  pleasure  in  excursions  less  solitary.  Often, 
when  the  sea  lay  before  them  like  a lake,  the  barren  dreari- 
ness of  the  opposite  coast  of  Cephallenia  contrasting  the 
smiling  shores  on  which  they  dwelt,  Viola  and  himself  would 
pass  days  in  cruising  slowly  around  the  coast,  or  in  visits  to 
the  neighboring  isles.  Every  spot  of  the  Greek  soil,  “ that 
fair  Fable-Land,”  seemed  to  him  familiar ; and  as  he  conversed 
of  the  Past,  and  its  exquisite  traditions,  he  taught  Viola  to 
love  the  race  from  which  have  descended  the  poetry  and  the 
wisdom  of  the  world.  There  was  much  in  Zanoni,  as  she 
knew  him  better,  that  deepened  the  fascination  in  which 
Viola  was  from  the  first  enthralled.  His  love  for  herself  was 
so  tender,  so  vigilant,  and  had  that  best  and  most  enduring 
attribute,  that  it  seemed  rather  grateful  for  the  happiness  in 
its  own  cares  than  vain  of  the  happiness  it  created.  His 
habitual  mood  with  all  who  approached  him  was  calm  and 
gentle,  almost  to  apathy.  An  angry  word  never  passed  his 
lips — an  angry  gleam  never  shot  from  his  eyes.  Once  they 
had  been  exposed  to  the  danger  not  uncommon  in  those  then 
half-savage  lands.  Some  pirates  who  infested  the  neighboring 


236 


ZANOm. 


coasts  had  heard  of  the  arrival  of  the  strangers,  and  the  sea‘ 
men  Zanoni  employed  had  gossiped  of  their  master’s  wealth. 
One  night  after  Viola  had  retired  to  rest,  she  was  awakened 
by  a slight  noise  below.  Zanoni  was  not  by  her  side ; she 
listened  in  some  alarm.  Was  that  a groan  that  came  upon 
her  ear?  She  started  up,  she  went  to  the  door ; all  was  still. 
A footstep  now  slowly  approached,  and  Zanoni  entered  calm 
as  usual,  and  seemed  unconscious  of  her  fears.  The  next 
morning,  three  men  were  found  dead  at  the  threshold  of  the 
principal  entrance,  the  door  of  which  had  been  forced. 
They  were  recognized  in  the  neighborhood  as  the  most 
sanguinary  and  terrible  marauders  of  the  coasts — men  stained 
with  a thousand  murders,  and  who  had  never  hitherto  failed 
in  any  attempt  to  which  the  lust  of  rapine  had  impelled  them. 
The  footsteps  of  many  others  were  tracked  to  the  sea-shore. 
It  seemed  that  the  accomplices  must  have  fled  on  the  death 
of  their  leaders.  But  when  the  Venetian  Proveditore,  or 
authority,  of  the  island,  came  to  examine  into  the  matter,  the 
most  unaccountable  mystery  was  the  manner  in  which  these 
ruffians  had  met  their  fate.  Zanoni  had  not  stirred  from  the 
apartment  in  which  he  ordinarily  pursued  his  chemical  studies. 
None  of  the  servants  had  even  been  disturbed  from  their 
slumbers.  No  marks  of  human  violence  were  on  the  bodies 
of  the  dead.  They  died,  and  made  no  sign.  - From  that 
moment  Zanoni’s  house — nay,  the  whole  vicinity — was  sacred. 
The  neighboring  villages,  rejoiced  to  be  delivered  from  a 
scourge,  regarded  the  stranger  as  one  whom  the  Pagiana  (or 
Virgin)  held  under  her  especial  protection.  In  truth,  the 
lively  Greeks  around,  facile  to  all  external  impressions,  and 
struck  with  the  singular  and  majestic  beauty  of  the  man  who 
knew  their  language  as  a native,  whose  voice  often  cheered 
them  in  their  humble  sorrows,  and  whose  hand  was  never 
closed  to  their  wants,  long  after  he  had  left  their  shore 
preserved  his  memory  by  grateful  traditions,  and  still  point  to 
the  lofty  platanus  beneath  which  they  had  often  seen  him 
seated,  alone  and  thoughtful,  in  the  heats  of  noon.  But 
Zanoni  had  haunts  less  open  to  the  gaze  than  the  shade  of 
the  platanus.  In  that  isle  there  are  the  bituminous  springs 
which  Herodotus  has  commemorated.  Often  at  night,  the 
moon,  at  least,  beheld  him  emerging  from  the  myrtle  and 
cystus  that  clothe  the  hillocks  around  the  marsh  that  imbeds 
the  pools  containing  the  inflammable  material,  all  the  medical 
uses  of  which,  as  applied  to  the  nerves  of  organic  life,  modern 
science  has  not  yet  perhaps  explored.  Yet  more  often  would 


ZANONL 


237 


he  pass  his  hours  in  a cavern,  by  the  loneliest  part  of  the 
beach,  where  the  stalactites  seem  almost  arranged  by  the 
hand  of  art,  and  which  the  superstition  of  the  peasants 
associates,  in  some  ancient  legends,  with  the  numerous  and 
almost  incessant  earthquakes  to  which  the  island  is  so 
singularly  subjected. 

Whatever  the  pursuits  that  instigated  these  wanderings  and 
favored  these  haunts,  either  they  were  linked  with,  or  else 
subordinate  to,  one  main  and  master  desire,  which  every 
fresh  day  passed  in  the  sweet  human  company  of  Viola  con- 
firmed and  strengthened. 

The  scene  that  Glyndon  had  witnessed  in  his  trance  was 
faithful  to  truth.  And  some  little  time  after  the  date  of  that 
night,  Viola  was  dimly  aware  that  an  influence,  she  knew  not 
of  what  nature,  was  struggling  to  establish  itself  over  her 
happy  life.  Visions  indistinct  and  beautiful,  such  as  those 
she  had  known  in  her  earlier  days,  but  constant  and  impres- 
sive, began  to  haunt  her  night  and  day  when  Zanoni  was 
absent,  to  fade  in  his  presence,  and  seem  less  fair  than  that. 
Zanoni  questioned  her  eagerly  and  minutely  of  these  visita- 
tions, but  seemed  dissatisfied,  and  at  times  perplexed,  by  her 
answers. 

“ Tell  me  not,”  he  said,  one  day,  of  those  unconnected 
images,  those  evolutions  of  starry  shapes  in  a choral  dance, 
or  those  delicious  melodies  that  seem  to  thee  of  the  music 
and  the  language  of  the  distant  spheres.  Has  no  one  shape 
been  to  thee  more  distinct  and  more  beautiful  than  the  rest — 
no  voice  uttering,  or  seeming  to  utter,  thine  own  tongue  and 
whispering  to  thee  of  strange  secrets  and  solemn  knowledge  ? ” 

“ No  ; all  is  confused  in  these  dreams,  whether  of  day  or 
night ; and  when  at  the  sound  of  thy  footsteps  I recover,  my 
memory  retains  nothing  but  a vague  impression  of  happiness. 
How  different — how  cold — to  the  rapture  of  hanging  on  thy 
smile,  and  listening  to  thy  voice,  when  it  says — ‘ I love 
thee ! ’ ” 

“ Yet,  how  is  it  that  visions  less  fair  than  these  once 
seemed  to  thee  so  alluring  ? How  is  it  that  they  then  stirred 
thy  fancies  and  filled  thy  heart  ? Once  thou  didst  desire  a 
fairy-land,  and  now  thou  seemest  so  contented  with  common 
life  ! ” 

“ Have  I not  explained  it  to  thee  before  ? Is  it  common 
life,  then,  to  love  and  to  live  with  the  one  we  love  ? My  true 
fairy-land  is  won  ! Speak  to  me  of  no  other.” 

And  so  Night  surprised  them  by  the  lonely  beach;  and 


2J8 


ZaNONi. 


Zanoni,  allured  from  his  sublimer  projects,  and  bending  over 
that  tender  face,  forgot  that,  in  the  Harmonious  Infinite  which 
spread  around,  there  were  other  worlds  than  that  one  human 
heart  1 


CHAPTER  IX. 

There  is  a principle  of  the  soul,  superior  to  all  nature,  through  which  we  are 
capable  of  surpassing  the  order  and  systems  of  the  world.  When  the  soul  is 
elevated  to  natures  better  than  itself,  then  it  is  entirely  separated  from  subordinate 
natures,  exchanges  this  for  another  life,  and,  deserting  the  order  of  things  with 
which  it  was  connected,  links  and  mingles  itself  with  another. — Iamblichus. 

“ Adon-Ai  ! Adon-Ai ! — appear,  appear  ! ” 

And  in  the  lonely  cave,  whence  once  had  gone  forth  the 
oracles  of  a heathen  god,  there  emerged  from  the  shadows 
of  fantastic  rocks  a luminous  and  gigantic  column,  glittering 
and  shifting.  It  resembled  the  shining  but  misty  spray, 
which,  seen  afar  off,  a fountain  seems  to  send  up  on  a starry 
night.  The  radiance  lit  the  stalactites,  the  crags,  the  arches 
of  the  cave,  and  shed  a pale  and  tremulous  splendor  on  the 
features  of  Zanoni. 

“ Son  of  Eternal  Light,”  said  the  invoker,  “ thou  to  whose 
knowledge,  grade  after  grade,  race  after  race,  I attained  at 
last,  on  the  broad  Chaldaean  plains — thou  from  whom  I have 
drawn  so  largely  of  the  unutterable  knowledge,  that  yet 
eternity  alone  can  suffice  to  drain — thou  who,  congenial  with 
myself,  so  far  as  our  various  beings  will  permit,  hast  been  for 
centuries  my  familiar  and  my  friend — answer  me,  and 
counsel.” 

From  the  column  there  emerged  a shape  of  unimaginable 
glory.  Its  face  was  that  of  a man  in  its  first  youth ; but 
solemn,  as  with  the  consciousness  of  eternity  and  the  tran- 
quillity of  wisdom  ; light,  like  star-beams,  flowed  through  its 
transparent  veins ; light  made  its  limbs  themselves,  and 
undulated,  in  restless  sparkles,  through  the  waves  of  its  daz- 
zling hair.  With  its  arms  folded  on  its  breast,  it  stood  distant 
a few  feet  from  Zanoni  and  its  low  voice  murmured  gently — 
“ My  counsels  were  sweet  to  thee  once,  and  once,  night  after 
night,  thy  soul  could  follow  my  wings  through  the  untroubled 
splendors  of  the  Infinite.  Now  thou  hast  bound  thyself  back 
to  the  earth  by  its  strongest  chains,  and  the  attraction  to  the 
clay  is  more  potent  than  the  sympathies  that  drew  to  thy 
charms  the  Dweller  of  the  Star-beam  and  the  Air  ! When 
last  thy  soul  hearkened  to  me,  the  senses  already  troubled 


ZANONT, 


239 


thine  intellect  and  obscured  thy  vision.  Once  again  I come 
to  thee ; but  thy  power  even  to  summon  me  to  thy  side  is  fading 
from  thy  spirit,  as  sunshine  fades  from  the  wave,  when  the 
winds  drive  the  cloud  between  the  ocean  and  the  sky.” 

“ Alas,  Aidon-Ai ! ” answered  the  seer,  mournfully,  I 
know  too  well  the  conditions  of  the  being  which  thy  pres- 
ence was  wont  to  rejoice.  I know  that  our  wisdom  comes 
but  from  the  indifference  to  the  things  of  the  world  which 
the  wisdom  masters.  The  mirror  of  the  soul  cannot  reflect 
both  earth  and  heaven  ; and  the  one  vanishes  from  the  surface 
as  the  other  is  glassed  upon  its  deeps.  But  it  is  not  to 
restore  me  to  that  sublime  abstraction  in  which  the  Intellect, 
free  and  disembodied,  rises,  region  after  region,  to  the  spheres, 
— that  once  again,  and  with  the  agony  and  travail  of  enfeebled 
power,  I have  called  thee  to  mine  aid.  I love,  and  in  love 
I begin  to  live  in  the  sweet  humanities  of  another  ! If  wise, 
yet  in  all  which  makes  danger  powerless  against  myself,  or 
- those  on  whom  I can  gaze  from  the  calm  height  of  indifferent 
science,  I am  blind  as  the  merest  mortal  to  the  destinies  of 
the  creature  that  makes  my  heart  beat  with  the  passions 
which  obscure  my  gaze.” 

“ What  matter  ! ” answered  Aidon-Ai.  “ Thy  love  must  be 
but  a mockery  of  the  name  ; thou  canst  not  love  as  they  do 
for  whom  there  are  death  and  the  grave.  A short  time  ! — 
like  a day  in  thy  incalculable  life,  and  the  form  thou  dotest 
on  is  dust ! Others  of  the  nether  world  go  hand  in  hand, 
each  with  each,  unto  the  tomb  ; hand  in  hand  they  ascend 
from  the  worm  to  new  cycles  of  existence.  For  thee,  below 
are  ages ; for  her,  but  hours.  And  for  her  and  thee — O 
poor,  but  mighty  one  ! — will  there  be  even  a joint  hereafter  ! 
Through  what  grades  and  heavens  of  spiritualized  being  will 
her  soul  have  passed  when  thou,  the  solitary  Loiterer,  comest 
from  the  vapors  of  the  earth  to  the  gates  of  light ! ” 

“ Son  of  the  Star-beam,  thinkest  thou  that  this  thought  is 
not  with  me  forever ; and  seest  thou  not  that  I have  invoked 
thee  to  hearken  and  minister  to  my  design  ? Readest  thou 
not  my  desire  and  dream  to  raise  the  conditions  of  her  being 
to  my  own  ? Thou,  Aidon-Ai,  bathing  the  celestial  joy  that 
makes  thy  life  in  the  oceans  of  eternal  splendor, — thou,  save 
by  the  sympathies  of  knowledge,  canst  conjecture  not  what  I, 
the  offspring  of  mortals,  feel — debarred  yet  from  the  objects 
of  the  tremendous  and  sublime  ambition  that  first  winged  my 
desires  above  the  clay — ^when  I see  myself  compelled  to  stand 
in  this  low  world  alone, — I have  sought  among  my  tribe  for 


240 


ZANONL 


comrades,  and  in  vain.  At  last  I have  found  a mate  ! The 
wild  bird  and  the  wild  beast  have  theirs  ; and  my  mastery 
over  the  malignant  tribes  of  terror  can  banish  their  larvae 
from  the  path  that  shall  lead  her  upward,  till  the  air  of 
eternity  fits  the  frame  for  the  elixir  that  baffles  death.” 

“ And  thou  hast  begun  the  initiation,  and  thou  art  foiled  ! 
I know  it.  Thou  hast  conjured  to  her  sleep  the  fairest  visions  ; 
thou  hast  invoked  the  loveliest  children  of  the  air  to  murmur 
their  music  to  her  trance,  and  her  soul  heeds  them  not ; and, 
returning  to  the  earth,  escapes  from  their  control.  Blind  one, 
wherefore  ? Canst  thou  not  perceive  ? Because  in  her  soul 
all  is  love.  There  is  no  intermediate  passion  with  which  the 
things  thou  wouldst  charm  to  her  have  association  and  affini- 
ties. Their  attraction  is  but  to  the  desires  and  cravings  of 
the  intellect.  What  have  they  with  the  passion  that  is  of  earth, 
and  the  hope  that  goes  direct  to  heaven  ? ” 

“ But  can  there  be  no  medium — no  link — in  which  our 
souls,  as  our  hearts,  can  be  united,  and  so  mine  may  have 
influence  over  her  own  ? ” 

“ Ask  me  not — thou  wilt  not  comprehend  me  ! ” 

“ I adjure  thee  ! — speak  !,” 

“ When  two  souls  are  divided,  knowest  thou  not  that  a 
third  in  which  both  meet  and  live  is  the  link  between  them  ? ” 
“ I do  not  comprehend  thee,  Aidon-Ai,”  said  Zanoni,  with 
a light  of  more  human  joy  upon  his  face  than  it  had  ever 
before  been  seen  to  wear  ; “ and  if  my  destiny,  which  here  is 
dark  to  mine  eyes,  vouchsafes  to  me  the  happy  lot  of  the 
humble — if  ever  there  be  a child  that  I may  clasp  to  my 

bosom  and  call  my  own  ! ” 

“ And  is  it  to  be  man  at  last,  that  thou  hast  aspired  to  be 
more  than  man  ? ” 

“ But  a child — a second  Viola ! ” murmured  Zanoni, 
scarcely  heeding  the  Son  of  Light ; “ a young  soul  fresh  from 
Heaven,  that  I may  rear  from  the  first  moment  it  touches 
earth — whose  wings  I may  train  to  follow  mine  through  the 
glories  of  creation ; and  through  whom  the  mother  herself 
may  be  led  upward  over  the  realm  of  death  ! ” 

“Beware — reflect!  Knowest  thou  not  that  thy  ^darkest 
enemy  dwells  in  the  Real  ? Thy  wishes  bring  thee  nearer  and 
nearer  to  humanity.” 

“ Ah,  Humanity  is  sweet ! ” answered  Zanoni. 

And  as  the  Seer  spoke,  on  the  glorious  face  of  Aidon-Ai 
there  broke  a smile. 


ZANOm. 


CHAPTER  X. 

iEterna  setemus  tribuit,  mortalia  confert 
Mortalis ; divina  Deus,  peritura  caducus  * 

Aurel.  Prud.  contra  Symmachum,  lib.  ii 

EXTRACTS  FROM  THE  LETTERS  OF  ZANONI  TO  MEJNOUR. 

LETTER  I. 

Thou  hast  not  informed  me  of  the  progress  of  thy  pupil ; 
and  I fear  that  so  differently  does  Circumstance  shape  the 
minds  of  the  generations  to  which  we  are  descended,  from  the 
intense  and  earnest  children  of  the  earlier  world  that  even 
thy  most  careful  and  elaborate  guidance  would  fail,  with 
loftier  and  purer  natures  than  that  of  the  Neophyte  thou  hast 
admitted  within  thy  gates.  Even  that  third  state  of  being, 
which  the  Indian  sage|  rightly  recognizes  as  being  between 
the  sleep  and  the  waking,  and  describes  imperfectly  by  the 
name  of  trance,  is  unknown  to  the  children  of  the  northern 
world  ; and  few  but  would  recoil  to  indulge  it,  regarding  its 
peopled  calm,  as  the  mdyd  and  delusion  of  the  mind.  Instead 
of  ripening  and  culturing  that  airy  soil,  from  which  nature, 
duly  known,  can  evoke  fruits  so  rich  and  flowers  so  fair,  they 
strive  but  to  exclude  it  from  their  gaze  ; they  esteem  that 
struggle  of  the  intellect  from  men’s  narrow  world  to  the  spir- 
it’s infinite  home  as  a disease  which  the  leech  must  extirpate 
with  pharmacy  and  drugs,  and  know  not  even  that  it  is  from 
this  condition  of  their  being,  in  its  most  imperfect  and  infant 
form,  that  Poetry,  Music,  Art — all  that  belong  to  an  Idea  of 
Beauty,  to  which  neither  sleeping  nor  waking  can  furnish 
archetype  and  actual  semblance — take  their  immortal  birth. 
When  we,  O Mejnour,  in  the  far  time,  were  ourselves  the 
Neophytes  and  Aspirants — we  were  of  a class  to  which  the 
actual  world  was  shut  and  barred.  Our  forefathers  had  no 
object  in  life  but  knowledge.  From  the  cradle  we  were  pre- 
destined and  reared  to  wisdom  as  to  a priesthood.  We  com* 

* The  Eternal  gives  eternal  things,  the  Mortal  gathers  mortal  things : God,  that 
which  is  divine,  and  the  perishable  that  which  is  perishable. 

t The  Brahmins,  speaking  of  Brahm,  say,  “ To  the  Omniscient  the  three 
modes  of  being — sleep,  waking,  and  trance, — are  not;”  distinctly  recognizing 
ranee  as  a third  and  co-equal  condition  of  being. 

£6 


{ 


242  ZANOm. 

menced  research  where  modem  Conjecture  closes  its  faithless 
wings.  And  with  us,  those  were  the  common  elements  of 
science  which  the  sages  of  to-day  disdain  as  wild  chimeras, 
or  despair  of  as  unfathomable  mysteries.  Even  the  funda- 
mental principles,  the  large,  yet  simple  theories  of  Electricity 
and  Magnetism,  rest  obscure  and  dim  in  the  disputes  of  theii 
blinded  schools ; yet,  even  in  our  youth,  how  few  ever 
attained  to  the  first  circle  of  the  brotherhood,  and,  after 
wearily  enjoying  the  sublime  privileges  they  sought,  they  vol- 
untarily abandoned  the  light  of  the  sun,  and  sunk,  without 
effort,  to  the  grave,  like  pHgrims  in  a trackless  desert,  over- 
awed by  the  stillness  of  their  solitude,  and  appalled  by  the 
absence  of  a goal.  Thou,  in  whom  nothing  seems  to  live  but 
the  desire  to  know — thou,  who,  indifferent  whether  it  leads  to 
weal  or  to  woe,  lendest  thyself  to  all  who  would  tread  the  path 
of  mysterious  science, — a Human  Book,  insensate  to  the  pre- 
cepts it  enounces  ; thou  hast  ever  sought,  and  often  made 
additions  to  our  number.  But  to  these  have  only  been  vouch- 
safed partial  secrets  ; vanity  and  passion  unfitted  them  for 
the  rest ; and  now,  without  other  interest  than  that  of  an 
experiment  in  science,  without  love  and  without  pity,  thou 
exposest  this  new  soul  to  the  hazards  of  the  tremendous 
ordeal ! Thou  thinkest  that  a zeal  so  inquisitive,  a courage 
so  absolute  and  dauntless,  may  suffice  to  conquer,  where 
austerer  intellect  and  purer  virtue  have  so  often  failed.  Thou 
thinkest,  too,  that  the  germ  of  art  that  lies  in  the  Painter’s 
mind,  as  it  comprehends  in  itself  the  entire  embryo  of  Powei 
and  Beauty,  may  be  expanded  into  the  stately  flower  of  the 
Golden  Science.  It  is  a new  experiment  to  thee.  Be  gentle 
with  thy  Neophyte,  and  if  his  nature  disappoint  thee  in  the 
first  stages  of  the  process,  dismiss  him  back  to  the  Real, 
while  it  is  yet  time  to  enjoy  the  brief  and  outward  life  which 
dwells  in  the  senses  and  closes  with  the  tomb.  And  as  I 
thus  admonish  thee,  O Mejnour,  wilt  thou  smile  at  my  incon- 
sistent hopes  ? I,  who  have  so  invariably  refused  to  initiate 
others  into  our  mysteries, — I begin  at  last  to  comprehend 
why  the  great  law,  which  binds  man  to  his  kind,  even  when 
seeking  most  to  set  himself  aloof  from  their  condition,  has 
made  thy  cold  and  bloodless  science  the  link  between  thyself 
and  thy  race  ; — why  thou  hast  sought  converts  and  pupils — 
why,  in  seeing  life  after  life  voluntarily  dropping  from  our 
starry  order,  thou  still  aspirest  to  renew  the  vanished,  and 
repair  the  lost — why,  amid  thy  calculations,  restless  and 
unceasing  as  the  wheels  of  Nature  herself,  thou  recoilest  from 


ZANONL 


243 


the  thought  to  be  alone  ! So  with  myself ; at  last  I,  too, 
seek  a convert — an  equal — I,  too,  shudder  to  be  alone  ! What 
thou  has  warned  me  of  has  come  to  pass.  Love  reduces  all 
things  to  itself.  Either  must  I be  drawn  down  to  the  nature 
of  the  beloved,  or  hers  must  be  lifted  to  my  own.  As  what 
ever  belongs  to  true  Art  has  always  necessarily  had  attraction 
for  tis,  whose  very  being  is  in  the  ideal  whence  Art  descends, 
so  in  this  fair  creature  I have  learned,  at  last,  the  secret  that 
bound  me  Ip  her  at  the  first  glance.  The  daughter  of  music 
^music,  passing  into  her  being,  became  poetry.  It  was  not 
the  stage  that  attracted  her,  with  its  hollow  falsehoods  ; it 
was  the  land  in  her  own  fancy  which  the  stage  seemed  to 
center  and  represent.  There  the  poetry  found  a voice — there 
it  struggled  into  imperfect  shape  ; and  then  (that  land  insuf- 
ficient for  it)  it  fell  back  upon  itself.  It  colored  her  thoughts, 
it  suffused  her  soul ; it  asked  not  words,  it  created  not 
things  ; it  gave  birth  but  to  emotions,  and  lavished  itself  on 
dreams.  At  last  came  love  ; and  there,  as  a river  into  the 
sea,  it  poured  its  restless  waves,  to  become  mute,  and  deep, 
and  still — the  everlasting  mirror  of  the  heavens. 

And  is  it  not  through  this  poetry  which  lies  within  her  that 
she  may  be  led  into  the  large  poetry  of  the  universe  ? Often 
I listen  to  her  careless  talk,  and  find  oracles  in  its  uncon- 
scious beauty,  as  we  find  strange  virtues  in  some  lonely  flower. 
I see  her  mind  ripening  under  my  eyes  ; and  in  its  fair  fertil- 
ity what  ever-teeming  novelties  of  thought ! O Mejnour ! 
how  many  of  our  tribe  have  unraveled  the  laws  of  the  uni- 
verse— have  solved  the  riddles  of  the  exterior  nature,  and 
deduced  the  light  from  darkness  ! And  is  not  the  POET, 
who  studies  nothing  but  the  human  heart,  a greater  philoso- 
pher than  all } Knowledge  and  theism  are  incompatible. 
To  know  nature  is  to  know  that  there  must  be  a God  ! But 
does,  it  require  this  to  examine  the  method  and  architecture 
of  creation  ? Methinks,  when  I look  upon  a pure  mind,  how- 
ever ignorant  and  childlike,  that  I see  the  August  and  Imma- 
terial One,  more  clearly  than  in  all  the  orbs  of  matter  which 
career  at  His  bidding  through  the  space. 

Rightly  is  it  the  fundamental  decree  of  our  order,  that  we 
must  impart  our  secrets  only  to  the  pure.  The  most  terrible 
part  of  the  ordeal  is  in  the  temptations  that  our  power  affords 
to  the  criminal.  If  it  were  possible  that  a malevolent  being 
could  attain  to  our  faculties,  what  disorder  it  might  introduce 
into  the  globe  ! Happy  that  it  is  not  possible  ; the  malevo- 
lence would  disarm  the  power.  It  is  on  the  purity  of  Viob 


244 


ZANONI. 


that  I rely,  as  thou  more  vainly  hast  relied  on  the  courage  or 
genius  of  thy  pupils.  Bear  me  witness,  Mejnour  ! Never 
since  the  distant  day  in  which  I pierced  the  Arcana  of  our 
knowledge,  have  I ever  sought  to  make  its  mysteries  subser- 
vient to  unworthy  objects  ; though,  alas  ! the  extension  of 
our  existence  robs  us  of  a country  and  a home  ; though  the 
law  that  places  all  science,  as  all  art,  in  the  abstraction  from 
the  noisy  passions  and  turbulent  ambition  of  actual  life,  for- 
bids us  to  influence  the  destinies  of  nations,  for  which  Heaven 
selects  ruder  and  blinder  agencies  ; yet,  wherever  have  been 
my  wanderings,  I have  sought  to  soften  distress,  and  to  con- 
vert from  sin.  My  power  has  been  hostile  only  to  the  guilty  ; 
and  yet,  with  all  our  lore,  how  in  each  step  we  are  reduced  to 
be  but  the  permitted  instruments  of  the  Power,  that  vouch- 
safes our  own,  but  only  to  direct  it.  How  all  our  wisdom 
shrinks  into  naught,  compared  with  that  which  gives  the 
meanest  herb  its  virtues,  and  peoples  the  smallest  globule 
with  its  appropriate  world  ! And  while  we  are  allowed  at 
times  to  influence  the  happiness  of  others,  how  mysteriously 
the  shadows  thicken  round  our  own  future  doom  ! We  can- 
not be  prophets  to  ourselves ! With  what  trembling  hope  I 
nurse  the  thought  that  I may  preserve  to  my  solitude  the 
light  of  a living  smile  ! 

*****  **  * 
EXTRACTS  FROM  LETTER  II. 

* 

Deeming  myself  not  pure  enough  to  initiate  so  pure  a heart 
I invoke  to  her  trance  those  fairest  and  most  tender  inhab- 
itants of  space  that  have  furnished  to  Poetry,  which  is  the 
instinctive  guess  into  creation,  the  ideas  of  the  Glendoveer 
and  Sylph.  And  these  were  less  pure  than  her  own  thoughts, 
and  less  tender  than  her  own  love  ! They  could  not  raise 

her  above  her  human  heart,  for  that  has  a haven  of  its  own. 

******** 

I have  just  looked  on  her  in  sleep — I have  heard  her  breathe 
my  name.  Alas  ! that  which  is  so  sweet  to  others  has  its 
bitterness  to  me  ; for  I think  how  soon  the  time  may  come 
when  that  sleep  will  be  without  a dream — when  the  heart  that 
dictates  the  name  will  be  cold,  and  the  lips  that  utter  it  be 
dumb.  What  a twofold  shape  there  is  in  love  ! If  we  exam* 
ine  it  coarsely — if  we  look  but  on  its  fleshly  ties — its,  enjoys 
ment  of  a moment — its  turbulent  fever  and  its  dull  reaction, 

^ — how  strange  it  seems  that  this  passion  should  bo  th^  supreme 


ZAATOArj; 


24S 


mover  of  the  world ; that  it  is  this  which  has  dictated  the 
greatest  sacrifices,  and  influenced  all  societies  and  all  times ; 
that  to  this  the  loftiest  and  loveliest  genius  has  ever  conse* 
crated  its  devotion  ; that,  but  for  love,  there  were  no  civiliza- 
tion— no  music,  no  poetry,  no  beauty,  no  life  beyond  the 
brute’s. 

But  examine  it  in  its  heavenlier  shape — in  its  utter  abnega* 
tion  of  self — in  its  intimate  connection  with  all  that  is  most 
delicate  and  subtle  in  the  spirit — its  power  above  all  that  5s 
sordid  in  existence— its  mastery  over  the  idols  of  the  baser 
worship — its  ability  to  create  a palace  of  the  cottage,  an  oasis 
in  the  desert,  a summer  in  the  Iceland — where  it  breathes, 
and  fertilizes,  and  glows ; and  the  wonder  rather  becomes 
how  so  few  regard  it  in  its  holiest  nature.  What  the  sensual 
call  its  enjoyments,  are  the  least  of  its  joys.  True  love  is 
less  a passion  than  a symbol.  Mejnour,  shall  the  time  come 
when  I can  speak  to  thee  of  Viola  as  a thing  that  was  ? 

c 

EXTRACT  FROM  LETTER  III. 

Knowest  thou  that  of  late  I have  sometimes  asked  myself, 
“ Is  there  no  guilt  in  the  knowledge  that  has  so  divided  us 
from  our  race  i ” It  is  true  that  the  higher  we  ascend,  the 
more  hateful  seem  to  us  the  vices  of  the  short-lived  creepers 
of  the  earth — the  more  the  sense  of  the  goodness  of  the 
All-good  penetrates  and  suffuses  us,  and  the  more  immediately 
does  our  happiness  seem  to  emanate  from  Him.  But,  on  the 
other  hand,  how  many  virtues  must  lie  dead  in  those,  who 
live  in  the  world  of  death,  and  refuse  to  die ! Is  not  this 
sublime  egotism,  this  state  of  abstraction  and  reverie — this 
self-wrapt  and  self-dependent  majesty  of  existence,  a resig- 
nation of  that  nobility  which  incorporates  our  own  welfare, 
our  joys,  our  hopes,  our  fears  with  others  ? To  live  on  in  no 
dread  of  foes,  undegraded  by  infirmity,  secure  through  the 
cares,  and  free  from  the  disease  of  flesh,  is  a spectacle  that 
captivates  our  pride.  And  yet  dost  thou  not  more  admire — 
him  who  dies  for  another  ? Since  I have  loved  her,  Mejnour, 
it  seems  almost  cowardice  to  elude  the  grave  which  devours 
the  hearts  that  wrap  us  in  their  folds.  I feel  it — the  earth 
grows  upon  my  spirit.  Thou  wert  right ; eternal  age,  serene 
and  passionless,  is  a happier  boon  than  eternal  youth,  with 
its  yearnings  and  desires.  Until  we  can  be  all  spirit,  the 
tranquilliW  of  solitude  must  be  indifference. 


246 


ZANOIsTL 


EXTRACTS  FROM  LETTER  IV. 

I have  received  thy  communication.  What  I is  it  so ! 
Hai.  thy  pupil  disappointed  thee  ? Alas,  poor  pupil  I But — 

* * **•*  * * « 4 

(Here  follow  comments  on  those  passages  in  Glyndon’s 
life  already  known  to  the  reader,  or  about  to  be  made  so, 
with  earnest  adjurations  to  Mejnour  to  watch  yet  over  the  fate 
of  his  scholar, ) 

But  I cherish  the  same  desire,  with  a warmer  heart.  My 
pupil  I how  the  terrors  that  shall  encompass  thine  ordeal  warn 
me  from  the  task'i  Once  more  I will  seek  the  Son  of  Light. 

* ******  * 

Ves;  Adon-Ai,  long  deaf  to  my  call,  at  last  has  descended  to 
my  vision,  and  left  behind  him  the  glory  of  his  presence  in 
the  shape  of  Hope.  Oh,  not  impossible,  Viola, — not  impossi- 
ble, that  we  yet  may  be  united,  soul  with  soul  1 

EXTRACT  FROM  LETTER  V. — {Matty  months  after  the  last?) 

Mejnour,  awake  from  thine  apathy — rejoice  ! A new  soul 
will  be  born  to  ‘the  world.  A new  soul  that  shall  call  me 
Father.  Ah,  if  they  for  whom  exist  all  the  occupations 
and  resources  of  human  life — if  they  can  thrill  with 
exquisite  emotion,  at  the  thought  of  hailing  again  their 
own  childhood  in  the  faces  of  their  children — if,  in  that  birth 
they  are  born  once  more  into  the  holy  Innocence  which  is 
the  first  state  of  existence — if  they  can  feel  that  on  man  de- 
volves almost  an  angel’s  duty,  when  he  has  a life  to  guide  from 
the  cradle,  and  a soul  to  nurture  for  the  Heaven — what  to  me 
must  be  the  rapture,  to  welcome  an  Inheritor  of  all  the  gifts 
which  double  themselves  in  being  shared ! How  sweet  the 
power  to  watch,  and  to  guard — to  instill  the  knowledge,  to 
avert  the  evil,  and  to  guide  back  the  river  of  life  in  a richer,  and 
broader,  and  deeper  stream,  to  the  paradise  from  which  it 
flows  ! And  beside  that  river  our  souls  shall  meet,  sweet 
Mother.  Our  child  shall  supply  the  sympathy  that  fails  as 
yet ; and  what  shape  shall  haunt  thee,  what  terror  shall  dismay 
when  thy  initiation  is  beside  the  cradle  of  thy  child  1 


ZANONJ. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

•» 

They  thus  beguile  the  way, 

Until  the  blustring  storme  is  overblowne, 

When  weening  to  returne  whence  they  did  stray 
They  cannot  finde  that  path  which  first  was  showne, 

But  wander  to  and  fro  in  waies  unknowne. 

Spenser’s  Faerie  Queene,  book  i.  canto  i.  st.  x. 

Yes,  Viola,  thou  art  another  being  than  when,  by  the  thresh- 
old of  thy  Italian  home,  thou  didst  follow  thy  dim  fancies 
through  the  Land  of  Shadow ; or  when  thou  didst  vainly  seek 
to  give  voice  to  an  Ideal  beauty,  on  the  boards  where  Illusion 
counterfeits  Earth  and  Heaven  for  an  hour,  till  the  weary 
sense,  awaking,  sees  but  the  tinsel  and  the  scene-shifter. 
Thy  spirit  reposes  in  its  own  happiness.  Its  wanderings 
have  found  a goal.  In  a moment  there  often  dwells  the 
sense  of  eternity ; for  when  profoundly  happy,  we  know  that 
it  is  impossible  to  die.  Whenever  the  so\A  feels  itself  it  feels 
everlasting  life  I 

The  initiation  is  deferred — thy  days  and  nights  are  left  to 
no  other  visions  than  those  with  which  a contented  heart 
enchants  a guileless  fancy.  Glendoveers  and  sylphs,  pardon 
me  if  I question  whether  those  visions  are  not  lovelier  than 
yourselves ! 

They  stand  by  the  beach,  and  see  the  sun  sinking  into  the 
sea.  How  long  now  have  they  dwelt  on  that  island  ? What 
matters  ! — it  may  be  months,  or  years — ^what  matters  ! Why 
should  I,  or  they,  keep  account  of  that  happy  time  ? As  in  the 
dream  of  a moment  ages  may  seem  to  pass,  so  shall  we  meas- 
ure  transport  or  woe — ‘by  the  length  of  the  dream,  or  the  num- 
ber of  emotions  that  the  dream  involves  ! 

The  sun  sinks  slowly  down ; the  air  is  arid  and  oppressive  ■ 
on  the  sea,  the  stately  vessel  lies  motionless ; on  the  shore, 
no  leaf  trembles  on  the  trees. 

Viola  drew  nearer  to  Zanoni ; a presentiment  she  could  not 
define  made  her  heart  beat  more  quickly ; and,  looking  into 
his  face,  she  was  struck  with  its  expression : it  was  anxious, 
abstracted,  perturbed.  “ This  stillness  awes  me,”  she  whis- 
pered. 

Zanoni  did  not  seem  to  hear  her.  He  muttered  to  himself, 
and  his  eyes  gazed  round  restlessly.  She  knew  not  why,  but 


24^> 


ZANONL 


that  gaze,  which  seemed  to  pierce  into  space — that  muttered 
voice  in  some  foreign  language — revived  dimly  her  earlier 
superstitions.  She  was  more"  fearful  since  the  hour  when  she 
knew'  that  she  was  to  be  a mother.  Strange  crisis  in  the  life 
of  woman,  and  in  her  love ! Something  yet  unborn  begins 
already  to  divide  her  heart  with  that  which  had  been  before 
its  only  monarch ! 

Look  on  me,  Zanoni,”  she  said,  pressing  his  hand. 

He  turned : “ Thou  art  pale,  Viola ; thy  hand  trembles  ! ” 
“ It  is  true.  I feel  as  if  some  enemy  were  creeping  neai 
us.” 


“ And  the  instinct  deceives  thee  not.  An  enemy  is  indeed 
at  hand.  I see  it  through  the  heavy  air ; I hear  it  through 
the  silence  ; the  Ghostly  One — the  Destroyer — the  Pesti- 
lence ! Ah,  seest  thou  how  the  leaves  swarm  with  insects, 
only  by  an  effort  visible  to  the  eye.  They  follow  the  breath 
of  the  plague ! ” As  he  spoke,  a bird  fell  from  the  boughs  at 
Viola’s  feet : it  fluttered,  it  writhed  an  instant,  and  was  dead. 

“ Oh,  Viola ! ” cried  Zanoni,  passionately,  “ that  is  death. 
Dost  thou  not  fear  to  die  ? ” 

“ To  leave  thee  ? Ah,  yes  1 ” 

“ And  if  I could  teach  thee  how  Death  may  be  defied — 
if  I could  arrest  for  thy  youth  the  course  of  time — if  I 
could ” 

He  paused  abruptly,  for  Viola’s  eyes  spoke  only  terror; 
her  cheek  and  lips  were  pale. 

“ Speak  not  thus — look  not  thus,”  she  said,  recoiling  from 
him.  “You  dismay  me.  Ah,  speak  not  thus,  or  I should 
tremble — no,  not  for  myself,  but  for  thy  child.” 

“ Thy  child ! But  wouldst  thou  reject  for  thy  child  the 
same  glorious  boon  ? ” 

“ Zanoni  I ” 

“ Well ! ” - 


“ The  sun  has  sunk  from  our  eyes,  but  to  rise  on  those  of 
others.  To  disappear  from  this  world,  is  to  live  in  the  world 
afar.  Oh,  lover — oh,  husband  I ” she  continued,  with  sudden 
energy,  “ tell  me  that  thou  didst  but  jest — that  thou  didst 
but  trifle  with  my  folly  I There ‘is  less  terror  in  the  pestilence 
than  in  thy  words.” 

Zanoni’s  brow  darkened ; he  looked  at  her  in  silence  for 
some  moments,  and  then  said,  almost  severely — 

“ What  hast  thou  known  of  me  to  distrust  ? ” 

**  Oh,  pardon,  pardon  ! — nothing  I ” cried  Viola,  throwing 
herself  on  his  breast,  and  bursting  into  tears.  “ I will  not 


ZANOm. 


249 


believe  even  thine  own  words,  if  they  seem  to  wrong  thee  ! ” 
He  kissed  the  tears  from  her  eyes,  but  made  no  answer. 

“ And  ah  ! ” she  resumed,  with  an  enchanting  and  childlike 
smile,  “ if  thou  wouldst  give  me  a charm  against  the  pesti- 
lence ! see,  I will  take  it  from  thee.”  And  slie  laid  her  hand 
on  a small  antique  amulet  that  he  wore  on  his  breast. 

“ Thou  knowest  how  often  this  has  made  me  jealous  of  the 
past ; surely,  some  love-gift,  Zanoni  ? But  no,  thou  didst  not 
love  the  giver  as  thou  dost  me.  Shall  I steal  thine  amulet  ? ” 

“ Infant  ! ” said  Zanoni,  tenderly  ; “ she  who  placed  this 
round  my  neck  deemed  it  indeed  a charm,  for  she  had  super- 
stitions like  thyself ; but  to  me  it  is  more  than  the  wizard’s 
spell — it  is  the  relic  of  a sweet  vanished  time,  when  none 
who  loved  me  could  distrust.” 

He  said  these  words  in  a tone  of  such  melancholy  reproach, 
that  it  went  to  the  heart  of  Viola  ; but  the  tone  changed  into 
a solemnity  which  chilled  back  the  gush  of  her  feelings  as  he 
resumed  : “ And  this,  Viola,  one  day,  perhaps,  I v/ill  transfer 
from  my  breast  to  thine ; yes,  whenever  thou  shalt  compre- 
hend me  better — whenever  the  laws  of  our  being  shall  be  the 
same  r' 

He  moved  on  gently.  They  returned  slowly  home  ; but  fear 
still  was  in  the  heart  of  Viola,  though  she  strove  to  shake  it 
off.  Italian  and  Catholic  she  was,  with  all  the  superstitions 
of  land  and  sect.  She  stole  to  her  chamber,  and  prayed  before 
a little  relic  of  San  Gennaro,  which  the  priest  of  her  house 
had  given  to  her  in  childhood,  and  which  had  accompanied 
her  in  all  her  wanderings.  She  had  never  deemed  it  possible 
to  part  with  it  before.  Now,  if  there  was  a charm  against 
the  pestilence,  did  she  fear  the  pestilence  for  herself  ? The 
next  morning  when  he  awoke,  Zanoni  found  the  relic  of  the 
saint  suspended,  with  his  mystic  amulet,  round  his  neck. 

“ Ah  ! thou  wilt  have  nothing  to  fear  from  the  pestilence 
now,”  said  Viola,  between  tears  and  smiles  ; “ and  when  thou 
wouldst  talk  to  me  again  as  thou  didst  last  night,  the  saint 
shall  rebuke  thee.” 

Well,  Zanoni,  can  there  ever  indeed  be  commune  of  thought 
and  spirit,  except  with  equals  ? 

Yes,  the  Plague  broke  out — the  island  home  must  be  aban- 
doned. Mighty  Seer,  thou  hast  no  power  to  save  those  whom 
thou  lovest  I Farewell,  thou  bridal  roof ! — sweet  resting-place 
from  Care,  farewell ! Climates  as  soft  may  greet  ye,  O lovers 
— skies  as  serene,  and  waters  as  blue  and  calm.  But  that 
time,  can  it  ever  more  return  ? Who  shall  say  that  the  heart 


250 


ZANONL 


does  not  change  with  the  scene — the  place  where  we  first  dwelt 
with  the  beloved  one  ? Every  spot  there  has  so  many  mem 
ories  which  the  place  only  can  recall.  The  past  that  haunts 
it,  seems  to  command  such  constancy  in  the  future.  If  ai 
thought  less  kind,  less  trustful,  entered  within  us,  the  sight 
of  a tree,  under  which  a vow  has  been  exchanged,  a tear  has 
been  kissed  away,  restores  us  again  to  the  hours  of  the  first 
divine  illusion.  But  in  a home,  where  nothing  speaks  of  the 
first  nuptials,  where  there  is  no  eloquence  of  association,  no 
holy  burial-places  of  emotions,  whose  ghosts  are  angels  ! — yes, 
who  that  has  gone  through  the  sad  history  of  Affection  will 
tell  us,  that  the  heart  changes  not  with  the  scene ! Blow 
fair,  ye  favoring  winds ; cheerily  swell,  ye  sails ; away  from 
the  land  where  Death  has  come  to  snatch  the  scepter  of 
Love  ! The  shores  glide  by ; new  coasts  succeed  to  the  green 
hills  and  orange-groves  of  the  Bridal  Isle.  From  afar  now 
gleam  in  the  moonlight  the  columns,  yet  extant,  of  a temple 
which  the  Athenian  dedicated  to  Wisdom  ; and,  standing  on 
the  bark  that  bounded  on  in  the  freshening  gale,  the  votary 
who  had  survived  the  goddess  murmured  to  himself — 

“ Has  the  wisdom  of  ages  brought  me  no  happier  hours  than 
those  common  to  the  shepherd  and  the  herdsman,  with  no 
world  beyond  their  village — no  aspiration  beyond  the  kiss  and 
the  smile  of  home  ? ” 

And  the  moon  resting  alike  over  the  ruins  of  the  temple  of 
the  departed  Creed — over  the  hut  of  the  living  peasant — over 
the  immemorial  mountain-top,  and  the  perishable  herbage  that 
clothed  its  sides,  seemed  to  smile  back  its  answer  of  calm  dis- 
dain to  the  being  who,  perchance,  might  have  seen  the  temple 
built,  and  who,  in  his  inscrutable  existence,  might  behold  th« 
mountain  shattered  from  its  base. 


ZANONL 


BOOK  V. 

THE  EFFECTS  OF  THE  ELIXIE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Zwei  Seelen  wohnen,  ach ! in  meiner  Brust. 

<(ir  * * * * 

Was  stehst  du  so,  und  blickst  erstaunt  hinaus  ? * 

Faust. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  we  left  Master  Paolo  by  the 
bed-side  of  Glyndon  , and  as,  waking  from  that  profound 
slumber,  the  recollections  of  the  past  night  came  horribly 
back  to  his  mind,  the  Englishman  uttered  a cry,  and  covered 
his  face  with  his  hands. 

“ Good  morrow,  Excellency,^’  said  Paolo  gayly.  “ Corpo  di 
Bacco,  you  have  slept  soundly  ! ” 

The  sound  of  this  man’s  voice,  so  lusty,  ringing,  and 
healthful,  served  to  scatter  before  it  the  phantasma  that  yet 
haunted  Glyndon’s  memory. 

He  rose  erect  in  his  bed.  “ And  where  did  you  find  me  ? 
Why  are  you  here  ? ” 

“ Where  did  I find  you  ! ” repeated  Paolo,  in  surprise — “ in 
your  bed,  to  be  sure.  Why  am  I here  ! — -because  the  Padrone 
bade  me  await  your  waking,  and  attend  your  commands.” 

“ The  Padrone,  Mejnour  ! — is  he  arrived  ? ” 

“ Arrived  and  departed,  Signor,  He  has  left  this  letter  for 
you.” 

“ Give  it  me,  and  wait  without  till  I am  dressed.” 

“ At  your  service.  I have  bespoke  an  excellent  breakfast : 

• Two  souls  dwell,  alas ! In  my  Ureast 
* ♦ ♦ ♦ 

Why  standest  thou  so,  and  lookest  out  astonished  ? 


25> 


zAj^om. 


you  must  be  hungry.  I am  a very  tolerable  cook  ; a monk’s 
son  ought  to  be  ! You  will  be  startled  at  my  genius  in  the 
dressing  of  fish.  My  singing,  I trust,  will  not  disturb  you. 
I always  sing  while  I prepare  a salad ; it  harmonizes  the 
ingredients.”  And  slinging  his  carbine  over  his  shoulder, 
Paolo  sauntered  from  the  room,  and  closed  the  door. 

Glyndon  was  already  deep  in  the  contents  of  the  following 
letter : 

“ When  [ first  received  thee  as  my  pupil,  I promised 
Zanoni,  if  convinced  by  thy  first  trials  that  thou  couldst  but 
swell,  not  the  number  of  our  order,  but  the  list  of  the  victims 
who  have  aspired  to  it  in  vain,  I would  not  rear  thee  to  thine 
own  wretchedness  and  doom — I would  dismiss  thee  back  to 
the  world.  I fulfill  my  promise.  Thine  ordeal  has  been  the 
easiest  that  Neophyte  ever  knew.  I asked  for  nothing  but 
abstinence  from  the  sensual,  and  a brief  experiment  of  thy 
patience  and  thy  faith.  Go  back  to  thine  own  world ; thou 
hast  no  nature  to  aspire  to  ours  ! 

“ It  was  I who  prepared  Paolo  to  receive  thee  at  the  revel. 
It  was  I who  instigated  the  old  beggar  to  ask  thee  for  alms. 
It  was  I who  left  open  the  book  that  thou  couldst  not  read 
without  violating  my  command.  Well,  thou  hast  seen  what 
awaits  thee  at  the  threshold  of  knowledge.  Thou  hast  con- 
fronted the  first  foe  that  menaces  him  whom  the  senses  yet 
grasp  and  enthral.  Dost  thou  wonder  that  I close  upon  thee 
the  gates  forever  ! Dost  thou  not  comprehend,  at  last,  that 
it  needs  a soul  tempered,  and  purified,  and  raised,  not  by 
external  spells,  but  by  its  own  sublimity  and  valor,  to  pass  the 
threshold,  and  disdain  the  foe  ? Wretch ! all  my  silence 
avails  nothing  for  the  rash,  for  the  sensual — ^for  him  who 
desires  our  secrets,  but  to  pollute  them  to  gross  enjoyments 
and  selfish  vice  ? How  have  the  impostors  and  sorcerers  of 
the  earlier  times  perished  by  their  very  attempt  to  penetrate 
the  mysteries  that  should  purify  and  not  deprave  ! They 
have  boasted  of  the  philosopher’s  stone  and  died  in  rags  ; of 
the  immortal  elixir,  and  sunk  to  their  grave,  gray  before 
their  time.  Legends  tell  you  that  the  fiend  rent  them  into 
fragments.  Yes  ; the  fiend  of  their  own  unholy  desires  and 
criminal  designs  ! What  they  coveted  thou  covetest ; and  if 
thou  hadst  the  wings  of  a seraph,  thou  couldst  soar  not  from 
the  slough  of  thy  mortality.  Thy  desire  for  knowledge,  but 
petulant  presumption  ; thy  thirst  for  happiness,  but  the  dis' 
eased  longing  for  the  unclean  and  muddied  waters  of  corpo- 
real pleasure  ; thy  very  love,  which  usually  elevates  even  the 


ZANONL 


253 


mean,  a passion  that  calculates  treason  amid  the  first  glow  of 
lust ; — thou^  one  of  us  ! Thou,  a brother  of  the  August 
Order!  Thou  an  Aspirant  to  the  Stars  that  shine  in  the 
Shemaia  of  the  Chaldaean  lore  ! The  eagle  can  raise  but  the 
eaglet  to  the  sun.  I abandon  thee  to  thy  twilight ! 

But,  alas,  for  thee,  disobedient  and  profane  I thou  hast  in- 
haled the  elixir ; thou  hast  attracted  to  thy  presence  a ghastly 
. and  remorseless  foe.  Thou  thyself  must  exorcise  the  phantom 
thou  hast  raised.  Thou  must  return  to  the  world;  but  not 
without  punishment  and  strong  effort  canst  thou  regain  the 
calm  and  the  joy  of  the  life  thou  hast  left  behind.  This,  for 
thy  comfort,  will  I tell  thee : he  who  has  drawn  into  his  frame 
even  so  little  of  the  volatile  and  vital  energy  of  the  aerial  juices 
as  thyself,  has  awakened  faculties  that  cannot  sleep — faculties 
that  may  yet,  with  patient  humility,  with  sound  faith,  and  the 
courage  that  is  not  of  the  body  like  thine,  but  of  the  resolute 
and  virtuous  mind,  attain,  if  not  to  the  knowledge  that  reigns 
above,  to  high  achievement  in  the  career  of  men.  Thou  wilt 
find  the  restless  influence  in  all  that  thou  wouldst  undertake. 
Thy  heart,  amid  vulgar  joys,  will  aspire  to  something  holier  ; 
thy  ambition,  amid  coarse  excitement,  to  something  beyond 
thy  reach.  But  deem  not  that  this  of  itself  will  suffice  for 
glory.  Equally  may  the  craving  lead  thee  to  shame  and  guilt. 
It  is  but  an  imperfect  and  new-born  energy,  which  will  not 
suffer  thee  to  repose.  As  thou  directest  it,  must  thou  believe 
it  to  be  the  emanation  of  thine  evil  genius  or  thy  good. 

“ But  woe  to  thee ! insect  meshed  in  the  web  in  which  thou 
hast  entangled  limbs  and  wings  ! Thou  hast  not  only  inhaled 
the  elixir,  thou  hast  conjured  the  specter ; of  all  the  tribes  of 
the  space,  no  foe  is  so  malignant  to  man — and  thou  hast  lifted 
the  veil  from  thy  gaze.  I cannot  restore  to  thee  the  happy 
dimness  of  thy  vision.  Know,  at  least,  that  all  of  us — the 
highest  and  the  wisest — who  have,  in  sober  truth,  passed  be- 
yond the  threshold,  have  had,  as  our  first  fearful  task,  to 
master  and  subdue  its  grisly  and  appalling  guardian.  Know 
that  thou  canst  deliver  thyself  from  those  livid  eyes — know 
that,  while  they  haunt,  they  cannot  harm,  if  thou  resistest  the 
thoughts  to  which  they  tempt,  "and  the  horror  they  engender. 
Dread  them  most  when  thou  beholdest  them  not.  And  thus,  son 
of  the  worm,  we  part ! All  that  I can  tell  thee  to  encourage, 
yet  to  warn  and  to  guide,  I have  told  thee  in  these  lines.  Not 
from  me,  from  thyself  has  come  the  gloomy  trial,  from  which 
I yet  trust  thou  wilt  emerge  into  peace.  Type  of  the  knowl- 
edge that  I serve,  I withhold  no  lesson  from  the  pure  aspirant; 


254 


ZANOm. 


I am  a dark  enigma  to  the  general  seeker.  As  man’s  only 
indestructible  possession  is  his  memory,  so  it  is  not  in  mine 
art  to  crumble  into  matter  the  immaterial  thoughts  that  have 
sprung  up  within  thy  breast.  The  tyro  might  shatter  this 
castle  to  the  dust,  and  topple  down  the  mountain  to  the  plain. 
The  master  has  no  power  to  say,  ‘Exist  no  more,’  to  one 
THOUGHT  that  his  knowledge  has  inspired.  Thou  mayst 
change  the  thought  into  new  forms — thou  mayst  rarefy  and 
sublimate  it  into  a finer  spirit ; but  thou  canst  not  annihilate 
that  which  has  no  home  but  in  the  memory — no  substance 
but  the  idea.  Every  thought  is  a soul  I Vainly,  therefore, 
would  I or  thou  undo  the  past,  or  restore  to  thee  the  gay  blind- 
ness of  thy  youth.  Thou  must  endure  the  influence  of  the 
elixir  thou  hast  inhaled ; thou  must  wrestle  with  the  specter 
thou  hast  invoked  ! ” 

The  letter  fell  from  Glyndon’s  hand.  A sort  of  stupor  suc- 
ceeded to  the  various  emotions  which  had^chased  each  other 
in  the  perusal — a stupor,  resembling  that  which  follows  the 
sudden  destruction  of  any  ardent  and  long-nursed  hope  in  the 
human  heart,  whether  it  be  of  love,  of  avarice,  of  ambition. 
The  loftier  world  for  which  he  had  so  thirsted,  sacrificed,  and 
toiled,  was  closed  upon  him  “forever,”  and  by  his  own  faults 
of  rashness  and  presumption.  But  Glyndon’s  was  not  of  that 
nature  which  submits  long  to  condemn  itself.  His  indignation 
began  to  kindle  against  Mejnour,  who  owned  he  had  tempted, 
' and  who  now  abandoned  him — abandoned  him  to  the  presence 
of  a specter.  The  Mystic’s  reproaches  stung,  rather  than 
humbled  him.  What  crime  had  he  committed  to  deserve 
language  so  harsh  and  disdainful?  Was  it  so  deep  a de- 
basement to  feel  pleasure  in  the  smile  and  the  eyes  of  Fillide  ? 
Had  not  Zanoni  himself  confessed  love  for  Viola  ? — had  he 
not  fled  with  her  as  his  companion  ? Glyndon  never  paused 
to  consider  if  there  are  no  distinctions  between  one  kind  of 
love  and  another.  Where,  too,  was  the  great  offense  of  yield- 
ing to  a temptation  which  only  existed  for  the  brave  ? Had 
not  the  mystic  volume  which  Mejnour  had  purposely  left  open 
bid  him  but  “ Beware  of  fear  ? ” Was  not,  then,  every  will- 
ful provocative  held  out  to  the  strongest  influences  of  the 
human  mind,  in  the  prohibition  to  enter  the  chamber-?=in  the 
possession  of  the  key  which  excited  his  curiosity — in  the  vol- 
ume which  seemed  to  dictate  the  mode  by  which  the  curiosity 
was  to  be  gratified  ? As,  rapidly,  these  thoughts  passed  over 
him,  he  began  to  consider  the  whole  conduct  of  Mejnour 
either  as  a perfidious  design  to  entrap  him  to  his  own  misery, 


ZANOm, 


*55 


or  as  a trick  of  an  impostor,  who  knew  that  he  could  not 
realize  the  great  professions  he  had  made.  On  glancing 
again  over  the  more  mysterious  threats  and  warnings  in  Mej- 
nour’s  letter,  they  seemed  to  assume  the  language  of  mere 
parable  and  allegory — the  jargon  of  the  Platonists  and  Pytha- 
goreans. By  little  and  little,  he  began  to  consider  that  the 
very  specter  he  had  seen — even  that  one  phantom  so  horrid 
in  its  aspect — were  but  the  delusions  which  Mejnour’s  science 
had  enabled  him  to  raise.  The  healthful  sun-light,  filling  up 
every  cranny  in  his  chamber,  seemed  to  laugh  away  the  ter- 
rors of  the  past  night.  His  pride  and  his  resentment  nerved 
his  habitual  courage  : and  when,  having  hastily  dressed  him- 
self, he  rejoined  Paolo,  it  was  with  a flushed  cheek  and  a 
haughty  step. 

“ So,  Paolo,’’  said  he,  “ the  Padrone,  as  you  call  him,  told 
you  to  expect  and  welcome  me  at  your  village  feast  ? ” 

“ He  did  so,  by  a message  from  a wretched  old  cripple. 
This  surprised  me  at  the  time,  for  I thought  he  was  far  dis- 
tant. But  these  great  philosophers  make  a joke  of  two  or 
three  hundred  leagues.” 

“ Why  did  you  not  tell  me  you  had  heard  from  Mejnour  ? ” 
“ Because  the  old  cripple  forbade  me.” 

“ Did  you  not  see  the  man  afterward  during  the  dance  ? ” 
No,  Excellency.” 

“ Humph ! ” 

“ Allow  me  to  serve  you,”  said  Paolo,  piling  Glyndon’s 
plate,  and  then  filling  his  glass.  “ I wish.  Signor,  now  the 
Padrone  is  gone, — not  ” — added  Paolo,  as  he  cast  rather  a 
frightened  and  suspicious  glance  round  the  room — that  I 
mean  to  say  anything  disrespectful  of  him, — I wish,  I say,  now 
that  he  is  gone,  that  you  would  take  pity  on  yourself,  and 
ask  your  own  heart  what  your  youth  was  meant  for  ? Not  to 
bury  yourself  alive  in  these  old  ruins,  and  endanger  body  and 
soul  by  studies  which  I am  sure  no  saint  could  approve  of.” 

“ Are  the  saints  so  partial,  then,  to  your  own  occupations. 
Master  Paolo  ?” 

“ Why,”  answered  the  bandit,  a little  confused,  a gentle- 
man with  plenty  of  pistoles  in  his  purse,  need  not,  of  neces- 
sity, make  it  his  profession  to  take  away  the  pistoles  of  other 
people  I It  is  a different  thing  for  us  poor  rouges.  After 
all,  too,  I always  devote  a tithe  of  my  gains  to  the  Virgin ; 
and  I share  the  rest  charitably  with  the  poor.  But  eat, 
drink,  enjoy  yourself — be  absolved  by  your  confessor  for 
any  little  peccadilloes,  and  don’t  run  too  long  scores  at  a 


256 


ZANONI. 


time — that’s  my  advice.  Your  health,  Excellency  ! Pshaw, 
Signor,  fasting,  except  on  the  days  prescribed  to  a good 
Catholic,  only  engenders  phantoms.” 

“ Phantoms  ! ” 

“ Yes ; the  devil  always  tempts  the  empty  stomach.  To 
covet,  to  hate,  to  thieve,  to  rob,  and  to  murder ; — these  are 
the  natural  desires  of  a man  who  is  famishing.  With  a full 
belly.  Signor,  we  are  at  peace  with  all  the  world.  That’s 
right : you  like  the  partridge  ! Cospetto  ! when  I myself 
have  passed  two  or  three  days  in  the  mountains,  with  nothing 
from  sunset  to  sunrise  but  a black  crust  and  an  onion,  I grow 
as  fierce  as  a wolf.  That’s  not  the  worst  too.  In  these  times 
I see  little  imps  dancing  before  me.  Oh,  yes  ; fasting  is  as 
full  of  specters  as  a field  of  battle.” 

Glyndon  thought  there  was  some  sound  philosophy  in  the 
reasoning  of  his  companion ; and  certainly,  the  more  he  ate 
and  drank,  the  more  the  recollection  of  the  past  night  and  of 
Mejnour’s  desertion  faded  from  his  mind.  The  casement 
was  open — the  breeze  blew — the  sun  shone — all  Nature  was 
merry ; and  merry  as  Nature  herself  grew  Maestro  Paolo. 
He  talked  of  adventures,  of  travel,  of  women,  with  a hearty 
gusto  that  had  its  infection.  But  Glyndon  listened  yet  more 
complacently  when  Paolo  turned  with  an  arch  smile  to  praises 
of  the  eye,  the  teeth,  the  ankles,  and  the  shape  of  the  hand- 
some Fillide. 

This  man,  indeed,  seemed  the  very  personation  of  animal 
sensual  life.  He  would  have  been  to  Faust  a more  danger- 
ous tempter  than  Mephistopheles.  There  was  no  sneer  on 
his  lip  at  the  pleasures  which  animated  his  voice.  To  one 
awaking  to  a sense  of  the  vanities  in  knowledge,  this  reckless 
ignorant  joyousness  of  temper  was  a wor-se  corrupter  than  all 
the  icy  mockeries  of  a learned  Fiend.  But  when  Paolo  took 
his  leave,  with  a promise  to  return  the  next  day,  the  mind  of 
the  Englishman  again  settled  back  to  a graver  and  more 
thoughtful  mood.  The  elixir  seemed,  in  truth,  to  have  left 
the  refining  effects  Mejnour  had  ascribed  to  it.  As  Glyndon 
paced  to  and  fro  the  solitary  corridor,  or,  pausing,  gazed 
upon  the  extended  and  glorious  scenery  that  stretched  below, 
high  thoughts  of  enterprise  and  ambition — bright  visions  of 
glory — passed  in  rapid  succession  through  his  soul. 

“ Mejnour  denies  me  his  science.  Well,”  said  the  painter, 
proudly,  “ he  has  not  robbed  me  of  my  art.” 

What ! Clarence  Glyndon  ! dost  thou  return  to  that  from 
which  thy  career  commenced  ? Was  Zanoni  right  after  all? 


ZANOm. 


257 


He  found  himself  in  the  chamber  of  the  Mystic  ; not  a 
vessel — not  an  herb  ! the  solemn  volume  is  vanished — the 
elixir  shall  sparkle  for  him  no  more  ! But  still  in  the  room 
itself  seems  to  linger  the  atmosphere  of  a charm.  Faster  and 
fiercer  it  burns  within  thee,  the  Desire  to  achieve,  to  create  ! 
Thou  longest  for  a life  beyond  the  sensual  ! — but  the  life  that 
’s  permitted  to  all  genius — that  which  breathes  through  the 
immortal  work,  and  endures  in  the  imperishable  name. 

Where  are  the  implements  for  thine  art  ? Tush  ! — when 
did  the  true  workman  ever  fail  to  find  his  tools  ? Thou  art 
again  in  thine  own  chamber — the  white  wall  thy  canvas — a 
fragment  of  charcoal  for  thy  pencil.  They  suffice,  at  least, 
to  give  outline  to  the  conception,  that  may  otherwise  vanish 
with  the  morrow. 

The  idea  that  thus  excited  the  imagination  of  the  artist  was 
unquestionably  noble  and  august.  It  was  derived  from  that 
Egyptian  ceremonial  which  Diodorus  has  recorded — the 
Judgment  of  the  Dead  by  the  Living  :*  when  the  corpse, 
duly  embalmed,  is  placed  by  the  margin  of  the  Acherusian 
Lake  ; and  before  it  may  be  consigned  to  the  bark  which  is 
to  bear  it  across  the  waters  to  its  final  resting-place,  it  is  per- 
mitted to  the  appointed  judges  to  hear  all  accusations  of  the 
past  life  of  the  deceased,  and,  if  proved,  to  deprive  the  corpse 
of  the  rites  of  sepulture. 

Unconsciously  to  himself,  it  was  Mejnour’s  description  of 
this  custom,  which  he  had  illustrated  by  several  anecdotes 
not  to  be  found  in  books,  that  now  suggested  the  design  to 
the  artist,  and  gave  it  reality  and  force.  He  supposed  a pow- 
erful and  guilty  king  whom  in  life  scarce  a whisper  had  dared 
to  arraign,  but  against  whom,  now  the  breath  was  gone,  came 
the  slave  from  his  fetters,  the  mutilated  victim  from  his  dun- 
geon, livid  and  squalid  as  if  dead  themselves,  invoking  with 
parched  lips  the  justice  that  outlives  the  grave. 

Strange  fervor  this,  O Artist ! breaking  suddenly  forth' 
from  the  mist  and  darkness  which  the  occult  science  had 
spread  so  long  over  thy  fancies — strange  that  the  reaction  of 
the  night’s  terror  and  the  day’s  disappointment  should  be 
back  to  thine  holy  art ! Oh,  how  freely  goes  the  bold  hand 
over  the  large  outline ! How,  despite  those  rude  m aterials, 
speaks  forth  no  more  the  pupil,  but  the  master ! Fresh  yet 
from  the  glorious  elixir,  how  thou  givest  to  thy  creatures  the 
finer  life  denied  to  thyself ! — some  power  not  thine  own  writes 

* Diod.t  lib.  1. 


17 


258 


ZAATOJVI. 


the  grand  symbols  on  the  wall.  Behind,  rises  the  mighty 
sepulcher,  on  the  building  of  which  repose  to  the  dead,  the 
lives  of  thousands  had  been  consumed.  There  sit  in  a semi- 
circle the  solemn  judges.  Black  and  sluggish  flows  the  lake. 
There  lies  the  mummied  and  royal  dead.  Dost  thou  quail  at 
the  frown  on  his  life-like  brow  ? Ha ! — bravely  done,  O 
Artist ! — up  rise  the  haggard  forms  ! — pale  speak  the  ghastly 
faces  ! Shall  not  Humanity  after  death  avenge  itself  on  Pow- 
er ? Thy  conception,  Clarence  Glyndon,  is  a sublime  truth ; 
thy  design  promises  renown  to  genius.  Better  this  magic 
than  the  charms  of  the  volume  and  the  vessel.  Hour  after 
hour  has  gone ; thou  hast  lighted  the  lamp ; night  sees  thee 
yet  at  thy  labor.  Merciful  heaven  ! what  chills  the  atmos^ 
phere  ? — why  does  the  lamp  grow  wan  ? — why  does  thy  hair 
bristle  ? There ! — there ! — there ! at  the  casement ! — It  gazes 
an  thee,  the  dark,  mantled,  loathsome  Thing!  There,  with 
their  devilish  mockery  and  hateful  craft,  glare  on  thee  those 
horrid  eyes  I 

He  stood  and  gazed — it  was  no  delusion.  It  spoke  not, 
moved  not,  till,  unable  to  bear  longer  that  steady  and  burning 
look,  he  covered  his  face  with  his  hands.  With  a start,  with 
a thjill,  he  removed  them ; he  felt  the  nearer  presence  of  the 
Nameless.  There,  it  cowered  on  the  floor  beside  his  design  ; 
and  lo  I the  figures  seemed  to  start  from  the  wall ! Those 
pale  accusing  figures,  the  shapes  he  himself  had  raised, 
frowned  at  him  and  gibbered.  With  a violent  effort  that  con- 
vulsed his  whole  being,  and  bathed  his  body  in  the  sweat  of 
agony,  the  young  man  mastered  his  horror.  He  strode 
toward  the  phantom ; he  endured  its  eyes  ; he  accosted  it 
with  a steady  voice ; he  demanded  its  purpose  and  defied  its 
power. 

And  then,  as  a wind  from  a charnel,  was  heard  its  voice. 
What  it  said,  what  revealed,  it  is  forbidden  the  lips  to  repeat, 
the  hand  to  record.  Nothing  save  the  subtle  life  that  yet 
animated  the  frame,  to  which  the  inhalations  of  the  elixir  had 
given  vigor  and  energy  beyond  the  strength  of  the  strongest, 
could  have  survived  that  awful  hour.  Better  to  wake  in  the 
catacombs  and  see  the  buried  rise  from  their  cerements,  and 
hear  the  ghouls,  in  their  horrid  orgies,  among  the  festering 
ghastliness  ©f  corruption,  than  to  front  those  features  when 

the  veil  was  lifted,  and  listen  to  that  whispered  voice  ! 

* ******* 

The  next  day,  Glyndon  fled  from  the  ruined  castle.  With 
what  hopes  of  starry  light  had  he  crossed  the  threshold ; with 


ZANONI. 


259 


what  memories  to  shudder  evermore  at  the  darkness,  did  he 
look  back  at  the  frown  of  its  time-worn  towers. 


CHAPTER  II. 

Faust.  Wohin  soli  es  nun  gehn  ? 

• Mephist.  Wohin  es  Dir  gefallt. 

Wii  sehn  die  kleine,  dann  die  grosse  Welt  * 

Faust. 

Draw  your  chair  to  the  fireside,  brush  clean  the  hearth, 
and  trim  the  lights.  Oh,  home  of  sleekness,  order,  substance, 
comfort  ! Oh,  excellent  thing  art  thou.  Matter  of  Fact ! 

It  is  some  time  after  the  date  of  the  last  chapter.  Here  we 
are,  not  in  moonlit  islands,  or  moldering  castles,  but  in  a 
room  twenty-six  feet  by  twenty-two — well  carpeted — well 
cushioned — solid  arm-chairs,  and  eight  such  bad  pictures,  in 
such  fine  frames,  upon  the  walls  1 Thomas  Mervale,  Esq. , 
merchant,  of  London,  you  are  an  enviable  dog  ! 

It  was  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world  for  Mervale,  on  return- 
ing from  his  continental  episode  of  life,  to  settle  down  to  his 
desk — his  heart  had  been  always  there.  The  death  of  his 
father  gave  him,  as  a birth-right,  a high  position  in  a respeci- 
able,  though  second-rate  firm.  To  make  this  establishment 
first-rate  was  an  honorable  ambition — it  was  his  ! He  had 
lately  married,  not  entirely  for  money — no  ! he  was  worldly 
rather  than  mercenary.  He  had  no  romantic  ideas  of  love  ; 
but  he  was  too  sensible  a man  not  to  know  that  a wife  should 
be  a companion — not  merely  a speculation.  He  did  not  care 
for  beauty  and  genius,  but  he  liked  health  and  good  temper, 
and  a certain  proportion  of  useful  understanding.  He  chose 
a wife  from  his  reason,  not  his  heart,  and  a very  good  choice 
he  made.  Mrs.  Mervale  was  an  excellent  young  woman — 
bustling,  managing,  economical,  but  affectionate  and  good. 
She  had  a will  of  her  own,  but  was  no  shrew.  She  had  a 
great  notion  of  the  rights  of  a wife,  and  a strong  perception 
of  the  qualities  that  insure  comfort.  She  would  never  have 
forgiven  her  husband,  had  she  found  him  guilty  of  the  most 
passing  fancy  for  another:  but,  in  return,  she  had  the  most 
admirable  sense  of  propriety  herself.  She  held  in  abhor- 
rence all  levity,  all  flirtation,  all  coquetry — small  vices,  which 

♦ F.  Whither  go  now  ? 

M.  Whither  it  pleases  thee. 

We  see  the  small  world,  then  the  great. 


ZANONI, 


2(0 

often  ruin  domestic  happiness,  but  which  a giddy  nature 
incurs  without  consideration.  But  she  did  not  think  it  right 
to  love  a husband  over-much.  She  left  a surplus  of  affection 
for  all  her  relations,  all  her  friends,  some  of  her  acquaint- 
ances, and  the  possibility  of  a second  marriage,  should  any 
accident  happen  to  Mr.  M.  She  kept  a good  table,  for  it 
suited  their  station ; and  her  temper  was  considered  even, 
though  firm  ; but  she*  could  say  a sharp  thing  or  two,  if  Mr,  . 
Mervale  was  not  punctual  to  a moment.  She  was-  very  par- 
ticular that  he  should  change  his  shoes  on  coming  home— the 
carpets  were  new  and  expensive.  She  was  not  sulky,  nor 
passionate — Heaven  bless  her  for  that ! — but  when  displeased 
she  showed  it,  administered  a dignified  rebuke — alluded  to 
her  own  virtues — to  her  uncle,  who  was  an  admiral,  and  to 
the  thirty  thousand  pounds  which  she  had  brought  to  the 
object  of  her  choice.  But  as  Mr.  Mervale  was  a good- 
humored  man,  owned  his  faults  and  subscribed  to  her  excel- 
lence, the  displeasure  was  soon  over. 

Even"  household  has  its  little  disagreements,  none  fewer 
than  that  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mervale.  Mrs.  Mervale,  without 
being  improperly  fond  of  dress,  paid  due  attention  to  it.  She 
was  never  seen  out  of  her  chamber  with  papers  in  her  hair, 
nor  in  that  worst  of  disillusions — a morning  wrapper.  At 
half-past  eight  every  morning,  Mrs.  Mervale  was  dressed  for 
the  day — that  is,  till  she  re-dressed  for  dinner ; — her  stays 
well  laced — her  cap  prime, — her  gowns,  winter  and  summer, 
of  a thick,  handsome  silk.  Ladies  at  that  time  wore  very 
short  waists  ; so  did  Mrs.  Mervale.  Her  morning  ornaments 
were  a thick  gold  chain,  to  which  was  suspended  a gold  watch 
— none  of  those  fragile  dwarfs  of  mechanism,  that  look  so 
pretty,  and  go  so  ill — but  a handsome  repeater,  which  chron- 
icled Father  Time  to  a moment ; also  a mosaic  brooch  ; also  a 
miniature  of  her  uncle,  the  admiral,  set  in  a bracelet.  For 
the  evening,  she  had  two  handsome  sets — necklace,  ear-rings, 
and  bracelets  complete — one  of  amethysts,  the  other  topazes. 
With  these,  her  costume  for  the  most  part  was  a gold-colored 
satin  and  a turban,  in  which  last  her  picture  had  been  taken. 
Mrs.  Mervale  had  an  aquiline  nose,  good  teeth,  fair  hair,  and 
light  eye-lashes,  rather  a high  complexion,  what  is  generally 
called  a fine  bust,  full  cheeks,  large  useful  feet,  made  for 
walking,  large  white  hands,  with  filbert  nails,  on  which  not  a 
speck  of  dust  had,  even  in  childhood,  ever  been  known  to 
alight.  She  looked  a little  older  than  she  really  was  ; but 
that  might  arise  from  a certain  air  of  dignity  and  the  aforesaid 


ZANONI. 


261 


aquiline  nose.  She  generally  wore  short  mittens.  She  never 
read  any  poetry  but  Goldsmith’s  and  Cowper’s.  She  was  not 
amused  by  novels,  though  she  had  no  prejudice  against  them. 
She  liked  a play  and  a pantomime,  with  a slight  supper  after- 
ward. She  did  not  like  concerts  nor  operas.  At  the  begin- 
ning of  the  winter  she  selected  some  book  to  read,  and  some 
piece  of  work  to  commence.  The  two  lasted  her  tifi  the 
spring,  when,  though  she  continued  to  work,  she  left  off  read- 
ing. Her  favorite  study  was  history,  which  she  read  through 
the  medium  of  Dr.  Goldsmith.  Her  favorite  author  in  the 
belles  lettres  was,  of  course.  Dr.  Johnson.  A worthier  woman, 
or  one  more  respected,  was  not  to  be  found,  except  in  an 
epitaph ! 

It  was  an  autumn  night.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mervale,  lately 
returned  from  an  excursion  to  Weymouth,  are  in  the  drawing- 
room— “ the  dame  sat  on  this  side — the  man  sat  on  that.” 

‘‘  Yes,  I assure  you,  my  dear,  that  Glyndon,  with  all  his 
eccentricities,  was  a very  engaging,  amiable  fellow.  You 
would  certainly  have  liked  him — all  the  women  did.” 
i “ My  dear  Thomas,  you  will  forgive  the  remark — but  that 

expression  of  yours — ‘ all  the  women  ’ ” 

“ I beg  your  pardon — you  are  right.  I meant  to  say  that 
he  was  a general  favorite  with  your  charming  sex.” 

“ I understand — rather  a frivolous  character.” 

“ Frivolous  ! no,  not  exactly  ; a little  unsteady-very  odd — 
but  certainly  not  frivolous  ; presumptuous  and  headstrong  in 
character,  but  modest  and  shy  in  his  manners,  rather  too 
much  so — ^just  what  you  like.  However,  to  return  ; I am 
seriously  uneasy  at  the  accounts  I have  heard  of  him  to-day. 
He  has  been  living,  it  seems,  a very  strange  and  irregular 
life,  traveling  from  place  to  place,  and  must  have  spent 
already  a great  deal  of  money.” 

“ Apropos  of  money,”  said  Mrs.  Mervale  ; “ I fear  we  must 
change  our  butcher ; he  is  certainly  in  league  with  the  cook.” 

“ That  is  a pity ; his  beef  is  remarkably  fine.  These  Lon- 
don servants  are  as  bad  as  the ' Carbonari.  But,  as  I was 
saying,  poor  Glyndon ” 

Here  a knock  was  heard  at  the  door.  “ Bless  me,”  said 
Mrs.  Mervale,  “ it  is  past  ten  ! Who  can  that  possibly  be  ? ” 
“ Perhaps  your  uncle,  the  admiral,”  said  the  husband,  with 
a slight  peevishness  in  his  accent.  “ He  generally  favors  us 
about  this  hour.” 

I hope,  my  love,  that  none  of  my  relations  are  unwelcome 


«62 


ZANONL 


visitors  at  your  house.  The  admiral  is  a most  entertaining 
man,  and  his  fortune  is  entirely  at  his  own  disposal.” 

“ No  one  I respect  more,”  said  Mr.  Mervale,  witk  emphasis. 

The  servant  threw  open  the  door,  and  announced  Mr. 
Glyndon. 

Mr.  Glyndon  ! — ^what  an  extraordinary ” exclaimed 

Mrs.  Mervale ; but  before  she  could  conclude  the  sentence, 
Glyndon  was  in  the  room. 

The  two  friends  greeted  each  other  with  all  the  warmth  of 
early  recollection  and  long  absence.  An  appropriate  and 
proud  presentation  to  Mrs.  Mervale  ensued ; and  Mrs.  Mer* 
vale  with  a dignified  smile,  and  a furtive  glance  at  his  bootSj 
bade  her  husband’s  friend  welcome  to  England. 

Glyndon  was  greatly  altered  since  Mervale  had  seen  him 
fast.  Though  less  than  two  years  had  elapsed  since  then,  his 
fair  complexion  was  more  bronzed  and  manly.  Deep  lines  of 
care,  or  thought,  or  dissipation,  had  replaced  the  smooth  con- 
tour of  happy  youth.  To  a manner  once  gentle  and  polished, 
had  succeeded  a certain^recklessness  of  mien,  tone,  and  bear- 
ing, which  bespoke  the  habits  of  a society  that  cared  little  for 
the  calm  decorum  of  conventional  ease.  Still  a kind  of  wild 
nobleness,  not  before  apparent  in  him,  characterized  his  as- 
pect,  and  gave  something  of  dignity  to  the  freedom  of  his  lan- 
guage and  gestures. 

So,  then,  you  are  settled,  Mervale — I need  not  ask  you  il 
you  are  happy.  Worth,  sense,  wealth,  character,  and  so  fai/ 
a companion  deserve  happiness,  and  command  it.” 

“ Would  you  like  some  tea,  Mr.  Glyndon  ? ” asked  Mrs. 
Mervale,  kindly. 

“ Thank  you — no.  I propose  a more  convivial  stimulus  to 
my  old  friend.  Wine,  Mervale — wine,  eh ! — or  a bowl  of  old 
English  punch.  Your  wife  will  excuse  us — we  will  make  a 
night  of  it ! ” 

Mrs.  Mervale  drew  back  her  chair,  and  tried  not.  to  look 
aghast.  Glyndon  did  not  give  his  friend  time  to  reply. 

“ So  at  last  I am  in  England,”  he  said,  looking  round  the 
room,  with  a slight  sneer  on  his  lips ; “ surely  this  sober  ai/ 
must  have  its  influence ; surely  here  I shall  be  like  the  rest/ 

“ Have  you  been  ill,  Glyndon  ? ” 

“ 111  1 yes.  Humph  ! you  have  a fine  house.  Does  it  con< 
tain  a spare  room  for  a solitary  wanderer  ? ” 

Mr.  Mervale  glanced  at  his  wife,  and  his  wife  looked  stead* 
ily  on  the  carpet.  “ Modest  and  shy  in  his  manners^ — rathe# 


ZANONI,  263 

too  much  so  I ” Mrs.  Mervale  was  in  the  seventh  heaven  of 
indignation  and  amaze  I 

“ My  dear ! ” said  Mr.  Mer/ale  at  last,  meekly  and  interred 
gatingly. 

“ My  dear  1 ” returned  Mrs.  Mervale,  innocently  and  sourly, 
“ We  can  make  up  a room  for  my  old  friend,  Sarah  ? ” 

The  old  friend  had  sunk  back  on  his  chair ; and,  gazing  in- 
tently on  the  fire,  with  his  feet  at  ease  upon  the  fender,  seem- 
cd  to  have  forgotten  his  question. 

Mrs.  Mervale  bit  her  lips,  looked  thoughtful,  and  at  last 
coldly  replied — “ Certainly,  Mr.  Mervale ; your  friends  do 
right  to  make  themselves  at  home.” 

With  that  she  lighted  a candle,  and  moved  majestically 
from  the  room.  When  she  returned,  the  two  friends  had  van- 
ished into  Mr.  Mervale’s  study. 

Twelve  o’clock  struck — one  o’clock — two  ! Thrice  had  Mrs. 
Mervale  sent  into  the  room  to  know — first,  if  they  wanted 
anything;  secondly,  if  Mi.  Glyndon  slept  cn  a mattress  or 
feather  bed  ; thirdly,  to  inquire  if  Mr.  Glyndon’s  trunk, 
which  he  had  brought  with  him,  should  be  unpacked.  And 
to  the  answer  to  all  these  questions  was  added,  in  a loud 
voice  from  the  visitor — a voice  that  pierced  from  the  kitchen 
to  the  attic — “ Another  howl  ! stronger,  if  you  please,  and 
be  quick  with  it ! ” 

At  last  Mr.  Mervale  a-  peared  in  the  conjugal  chamber — 
not  penitent,  not  apologetic — no,  not  a bit  of  it.  His  eyes 
twinkled,  his  cheeks  flushed,  his  feet  reeled ; he  sung — Mr. 
Thomas  Mervale  positively  sung ! 

Mr.  Mervale  ! is  it  possible,  sir ! ” 

* Old  King  Cole  was  a merry  old  soul——’  ” 

“ Mr.  Mervale  ! sir  ! — leave  me  alone,  sir ! ” 

“ ‘And  a merry  old  soul  was  he—*  ” 

**  What  an  example  to  the  servants  I 
“ ‘ And  he  called  for  his  pipe,  and  he  called  for  his  howl— " 

“ If  you  don’t  behave  yourself,  sir,  I shall  call— 

* * Call  for  his  fiddlers  three  I * ** 


ZANONr. 


464 


CHAPTER  in. 

In  der  Welt  weit, 

Aus  der  Einsamkeit 
Wollen  sie  Dich  locken.* 

Faust. 

The  next  morning,  at  breakfast,  Mrs.  Mervale  looked  aa 
U all  the  wrongs  of  injured  woman  sat  upon  her  brow.  Mr. 
Mervale  seemed  the  picture  of  remorseful  guilt  and  avenging 
bile.  He  said  little,  except  to  complain  of  headache,  and  to 
request  the  eggs  to  be  removed  from  the  table.  Clarence 
Glyndon — impervious,  unconscious,  unailing,  impenitent — was 
in  noisy  spirits,  and  talked  for  three. 

“ Poor  Mervale  ! he  has  lost  the  habit  of  good  fellowship, 
madam.  Another  night  or  two,  and  he  will  be  himself  again  ! 

“ Sir,”  said  Mrs.  Mervale,  launching  a premeditated  sen- 
tence with  more  than  Johnsonian  dignity;  “permit  me  to 
remind  you  that  Mr.  Mervale  is  now  a married  man,  the  des- 
tined father  of  a family,  and  the  present  master  of  a house- 
hold.” 

“ Precisely  the  reasons  why  I envy  him  so  much.  I my- 
self have  a great  mind  to  marry.  Happiness  is  contagious.” 

“ Do  you  still  take  to  painting  ? ” asked  Mervale,  languidly, 
endeavoring  to  turn  the  tables  on  his  guest. 

“ Oh,  no  ; I have  adopted  your  advice.  No  art,  no  ideal — 
nothing  loftier  than  commonplace  for  me  now.  If  I were  to 
paint  again,  I positively  think  would  purchase  my  pictures. 
Make  haste  and  finish  your  breakfast,  man ; I wish  to  consult 
you.  I have  come  to  England  to  see  after  my  affairs.  My 
ambition  is  to  make  money ; your  counsels  and  experience 
can  not  fail  to  assist  me  here.” 

“ Ah ! you  were  soon  disenchanted  of  your  Philosopher’s 
stone.  You  must  know,  Sarah,  that  when  I last  left  Glyndon, 
he  was  bent  upon  turning  alchemist  and  magician." 

“ You  are  witty  to-day,  Mr.  Mervale." 

“ Upon  my  honor  it  is  true.  I told  you  so  before," 

Glyndon  rose  abruptly. 

“ Why  revive  those  recollections  of  folly  and  presumption  ? 
Have  I not  said  that  I have  returned  to  my  native  land  to 

♦ Ifl  the  wide  world,  out  of  the  solitude,  will  these  allure  thee. 


ZANOm, 


265 


pursue  the  healthful  avocations  of  my  kind  1 O yes  ! what  so 
healthful,  so  noble,  so  fitted  to  our  nature,  as  what  you  call 
the  Practical  Life  ? If  we  have  faculties  what  is  their  use,  but 
to  sell  them  to  advantage ! Buy  knowledge  as  we  do  out 
goods ; buy  it  at  the  cheapest  market,  sell  it  at  the  dearest; 
Have  you  not  breakfasted  yet  ? ” 

The  friends  walked  into  the  street,  and  Mervale  shrunk  from 
the  irony  with  which  Glyndon  complimented  him  on  his  respec- 
tability,  his  station,  his  pursuits,  his  happy  marriage,  and  his 
eight  pictures  in  their  handsome  frames.  Formerly  the  sober 
Mervale  had  commanded  an  influence  over  his  friend : his  had 
been  the  sarcasm ; Glyndon’s  the  irresolute  shame  at  his  own 
peculiarities.  Now  this  position  was  reversed.  There  was  a 
fierce  earnestness  in  Glyndon’s  altered  temper,  which  awed 
and  silenced  the  quiet  commonplace  of  his  friend’s  character. 
He  seemed  to  take  a malignant  delight  in  persuading  himself 
that  the  sober  life  of  the  world  was  contemptible  and  base. 

Ah ! ” he  exclaimed,  “ how  right  you  were  to  tell  me  to 
marry  respectably ; to  have  a solid  position ; to  live  in  dec- 
orous fear  of  the  world  and  one’s  wife  ; and  to  command  the 
envy  of  the  poor,  the  good  opinion  of  the  rich ! You  have 
practiced  what  you  preach.  Delicious  existence  ! The  mer- 
chant’s desk,  and  the  curtain  lecture  1 Ha ! ha ! Shall  we 
have  another  night  of  it  ? ” 

Mervale,  embarrassed  and  irritated,  turned  the  conversation 
upon  Glyndon’s  affairs.  He  was  surprised  at  the  knowledge 
of  the  world  which  the  artist  seemed  to  have  suddenly  ac- 
quired ; surprised  still  more  at  the  acuteness  and  energy  with 
which  he  spoke  of  the  speculations  most  in  vogue  at  the 
market.  Yes;  Glyndon  was  certainly  in  earnest;  he  desired 
to  be  rich  and  respectable, — and  to  make  at  least  ten  per 
cent,  for  his  money ! 

After  spending  some  days  with  the  merchant,  during  which 
time  he  contrived  to  disorganize  all  the  mechanism  of  the 
house,  to  turn  night  into  day,  harmony  into  discord,  to  drive 
poor  Mrs.  Mervale  half-distracted,  and  to  convince  her  hus- 
band that  he  was  horribly  hen-pecked,  the  ill-omened  visitor 
left  them  as  suddenly  as  he  had  arrived.  He  took  a house 
of  his  own ; he  sought  the  society  of  persons  of  substance ; 
he  devoted  himself  to  the  money-market ; he  seemed  to  have 
become  a man  of  business ; his  schemes  were  bold  and 
colossal ; his  calculations  /apid  and  profound.  He  startled 
Mervale  by  his  energy,  and  dazzled  him  by  his  success.  Mer- 
vale began  to  envy  him — to  be  discontented  with  his  own 


266 


ZANONI. 


regular  and  slow  gains.  When  Glyndon  bought  or  sold  in  the 
funds, wealth  rolled  upon  him  like  the  tide  of  a sea;  what 
years  of  toil  could  not  have  done  for  him  in  art,  a few  months, 
by  a succession  of  lucky  chances,  did  for  him  in  speculation. 

Suddenly,  however,  he  relaxed  his  exertions  ; new  objects 
of  ambition  seemed  to  attract  him.  If  he  heard  a drum  in 
the  streets,  what  glory  like  the  soldier’s  ? If  a new  poem 
were  published,  what  renown  like  the  poet’s  ? He  began 
works  in  literature,  which  promised  great  excellenca^  to  throw 
them  aside  in  disgust.  Ail  at  once  he  abandoned  the  de- 
corous and  formal  society  he  had  courted  ; he  joined  himself 
with  young  and  riotous  associates  : he  plunged  into  the 
wildest  excesses  of  the  great  city,  where  Gold  reigns  alike 
over  Toil  and  Pleasure.  Through  all  he  carried  with  him  a 
certain  power  and  heat  of  soul.  In  all  society  he  aspired  to 
command — in  all  pursuits  to  excel.  Yet  whatever  the  passion 
of  the  moment,  the  reaction  was  terrible  in  its  gloom.  He 
sunk,  at  times,  into  the  most  profound  and  the  darkest  rev- 
eries. His  fever  was  that  of  a mind  that  would  escape 
memory — his  repose,  that  of  a mind  which  the  memory 
seizes  again,  and  devours  as  a prey.  Mervale  now  saw  little  of 
him  ; they  shunned  each  other.  Glyndon  had  no  confidant, 
and  no  friend. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Ich  fiihle  Dich  mir  nahe ; 

Die  Einsamkeit  belebt ; 

Wie  liber  seinen  Welten 
Der  Unsichtbare  schwebt.* 

Uhland, 

From  this  state  of  restlessness  and  agitation  rather  than 
continuous  action,  Glyndon  was  aroused  by  a visitor  who 
seemed  to  exercise  the  most  salutary  influence  over  him.  His 
sister,  an  orphan  with  himself,  had  resided  in  the  country  with 
her  aunt.  In  the  early  years  of  hope  and  home,  he  had  loved 
this  girl,  much  younger  than  himself,  with  all  a brother’s 
tenderness.  On  his  return  to  England,  he  had  seemed  to 
forget  her  existence.  She  recalled  herself  to  him  on  hei 

* I feel  thee  near  to  me ; 

The  loneliness  takes  life  — 

As  over  its  world 
The  invisible  hovers.' 


ZANONI. 


367 


aunt's  death  by  a touching  and  melancholy  letter , — she  had 
now  no  home  but  his — no  dependence  save  on  his  affection : 
he  wept  when  he  read  it,  and  was  impatient  till  Adela  ar> 
rived. 

This  girl,  then  about  eighteen,  concealed  beneath  a gentle 
and  calm  exterior  much  of  the  romance  or  enthusiasm  that 
had,  at  her  own  age,  characterized  her  brother.  But  her  enthu- 
siasm was  of  a far  purer  order,  and  was  restrained  within  proper 
bounds,  partly  by  the  sweetness  of  a very  feminine  nature, 
and  partly  by  a strict  and  methodical  education.  She  differed 
from  him  especially  in  a timidity  of  character,  which  exceeded 
that  usual  at  her  age,  but  which  the  habit  of  self  command 
concealed  no  less  carefully,  than  that  timidity  itself  concealed 
the  romance  I have  ascribed  to  her. 

Adela  was  not  handsome  ; she  had  the  complexion  and  the 
form  of  delicate  health  ; and  too  fine  an  organization  of  the 
nerves  rendered  her  susceptible  to  every  impression  that  could 
influence  the  health  of  the  frame  through  the  sympathy  of  the 
mind.  But  as  she  never  complained,  and  as  the  singular 
serenity  of  her  manners  seemed  to  betoken  an  equanimity  of 
temperament  which,  with  the  vulgar,  might  have  passed  for 
indifference,  her  sufferings  had  so  long  been  borne  unnoticed, ' 
that  it  ceased  to  be  an  effort  to  disguise  them.  Though,  as 
I have  said,  not  handsome,  her  countenance  was  interesting 
and  pleasing ; and  there  was  that  caressing  kindness,  that 
winning  charm  about  her  smile,  her  manners,  her  anxiety  to 
please,  to  comfort,  and  to  soothe,  which  went  at  once  to  the 
heart,  and  made  her  lovely — because  so  loving. 

Such  was  the  sister  whom  Glyndon  had  so  long  neglected, 
and  whom  he  now  so  cordially  welcomed.  Adela  had  passed 
many  years  a victim  to  the  caprices,  and  a nurse  to  the  mala- 
dies of  a selfish  and  exacting  relation.  The  delicate,  and 
generous,  and  respectful  affection  of  her  brother  was  no  less 
new  to  her  than  delightful.  He  took  pleasure  in  the  happi- 
ness he  created ; he  gradually  weaned  himself  from  other 
society  ; he  felt  the  Charm  of  Home.  It  is  not  surprising 
then,  that  this  young  creature,  free  and  virgin  from  every 
more  ardent  attachment,  concentrated  all  her  grateful  love  on 
this  cherished  and  protecting  relative.  Her  study  by  day, 
her  dream  by  night,  was  to  repay  him  for  his  affection.  She 
was  proud  of  his  talents,  devoted  to  his  welfare  ; the  smallest 
trifle  that  could  interest  him  swelled  in  her  eyes  to  the  grav< 
est  affairs  of  life.  In  short,  all  the  long-hoarded  enthusiasm, 

s 


V 


268 


ZANOm. 


which  was  her  perilous  and  only  heritage,  she  invested  in  this 
one  object  of  her  holy  tenderness,  her  pure  ambition. 

But  in  proportion  as  Glyndon  shunned  those  excitements 
by  which  he  had  so  long  sought  to  occupy  his  time,  or  dis- 
tract his  thoughts,  the  gloom  of  his  calmer  hours  became  deep- 
er and  more  continuous.  He  ever  and  especially  dreaded  to 
be  alone ; he  could  not  bear  his  new  companion  to  be  absent 
from  his  eyes  ; he  rode  with  her,  walked  with  her,  and  it  was 
with  visible  reluctance,  which  almost  partook  of  horror,  that 
he  retired  to  rest  at  an  hour  when  even  revel  grows  fatigued. 
This  gloom  was  not  that  which  could  be  called  by  the  soft 
name  of  melancholy — it  was  far  more  intense  : it  seemed  rath- 
er like  despair.  Often  after  a silence  as  of  death, — so  heavy, 
abstracted,  motionless,  did  it  appear, — he  would  start  abrupt- 
ly, and  cast  hurried  glances  around  him — his  limbs  trembling, 
his  lips  livid,  his  brows  bathed  in  dew.  Convinced  that  some 
secret  sorrow  preyed  upon  his  mind,  and  would  consume  his 
health,  it  was  the  dearest  as  the  most  natural  desire  of  Adela 
to  become  his  confidant  and  consoler.  She  observed,  with 
the  quick  tact  of  the  delicate,  that  he  disliked  her  to  seem 
affected  by,  or  even  sensible  of,  his  darker  moods.  She 
schooled  herself  to  suppress  her  fears  and  her  feelings.  She 
would  not  ask  his  confidence — she  sought  to  steal  into  it.  By 
little  and  little,  she  felt  that  she  was  succeeding.  Too  wrapt 
in  his  own  strange  existence  to  be  acutely  observant  of  the 
character  of  others,  Glyndon  mistook  the  self-content  of  a 
generous  and  humble  affection  for  constitutional  fortitude  ; 
and  this  quality  pleased  and  soothed  him.  It  is  fortitude  that 
the  diseased  mind  requires  in  the  confidant  whom  it  selects 
as  its  physician.  And  how  irresistible  is  that  desire  to  com- 
municate ! How  often  the  lonely  man  thought  to  himself, 
“ My  heart  would  be  lightened  of  its  misery,  if  once  confess- 
ed ! ” He  felt,  too,  that  in  the  very  youth,  the  inexperience, 
the  poetical  temperament  of  Adela,  he  could  find  one  who 
would  comprehend  and  bear  with  him  better  than  any  stern- 
er and  more  practical  nature.  Mervale  would  have  looked 
on  his  revelations  as  the  ravings  of  madness,  and  most  men, 
at  best,  as  the  sickbed  chimeras,  the  optical  delusions,  of 
disease.  Thus  gradually  preparing  himself  for  that  relief  for 
which  he  yearned,  the  moment  for  his  disclosure  arrived 
thus  : — 

One  evenirig,  as  they  sat  alone  together,  Adela,  who  in- 
herited  some  portion  of  her  brother’s  talent  in  art,  was  em- 
ployed in  drawing,  and  Glyndon,  rousing  himself  from  medi- 


ZANOm. 


2^9 


tations  less  gloomy  than  usual,  rose,  and  affectionately  passing 
his  arm  around  her  waist,  looked  over  her  as  she  sat.  An  ex- 
clamation of  dismay  broke  from  his  lips — he  snatched  the 
drawing  from  her  hand  : “ What  are  you  about  ? — what  por- 
trait is  this  ? ” 

“ Dear  Clarence,  do  you  not  remember  the  original  ? — it  is 
a copy  from  that  portrait  of  our  wise  ancestor  which  our  poor 
mother  used  to  say  so  strongly  resembled  you.  I thought  it 
would  please  you  if  I copied  it  from  memory.” 

“ Accursed  was  the  likeness  ! ” said  Glyndon,  gloomily. 
“ Guess  you  not  the  reason  why  I have  shunned  to  return 
to  the  home  of  my  fathers  ? — because  I dreaded  to  meet  that 
portrait ! — because  — because  — - but  pardon  me  — I alarm 
you  ! ” 

“ Ah,  no — no,  Clarence,  you  never  alarm  me  when  you 
speak,  only  when  you  are  silent ! Oh,  if  you  thought  me  wor- 
thy of  your  trust ! oh,  if  you  had  given  me  the  right  to  reason 
with  you  in  the  sorrows  that  I yearn  to  share  ! ” 

Glyndon  made  no  answer,  but  paced  the  room  for  some 
moments  with  disordered  strides.  He  stopped  at  last,  and 
gazed  at  her  earnestly.  “Yes,  you,  too,  are  his  descendant ! 
you  know  that  such  men  have  lived  and  suffered — ^you  will 
not  mock  me — you  will  not  disbelieve  ! Listen  ! hark ! — 
what  sound  is  that ! ” 

“But  the  wind  on  the  house-top,  Clarence — but  the  wind.” 

“ Give  me  your  hand,  let  me  feel  its  living  clasp,  and  when 
I have  told  you,  never  revert  to  the  tale  again.  Conceal  it  from 
all — swear  that  it  shall  die  with  us — the  last  of  our  predes- 
tined race  ! ” 

“ Never  will  I betray  your  trust — I swear  it — never ! ” said 
Adela,  firmly ; and  she  drew  closer  to  his  side.  Then  Glyndon 
commenced  his  story.  That  which,  perhaps  in  writing  and  to 
minds  prepared  to  question  and  disbelieve,  may  seem  cold 
and  terrorless,  became  far  different  when  told  by  those  blanch- 
ed lips,  with  all  that  truth  of  suffering  which  convinces  and 
appals.  Much,  indeed,  he  concealed,  much  he  involuntarily 
softened ; but  he  revealed  enough  to  make  his  tale  intelligible 
and  distinct  to  his  pale  and  trembling  listener.  “At  day- 
break,” he  said,  “ I left  that  unhallowed  and  abhorred  abode. 
I had  one  hope  still — I w^ould  seek  Mejnour  through  the  world. 
I would  force  him  to  lay  at  rest  the  fiend  that  haunted  my 
soul.  With  this  intent  I journeyed  from  city  to  city.  I insti- 
tuted the  most  vigilant  researches  through  the  police  of  Italy. 
I even  employed  the  services  of  the  Inquisition  at  Rome, 


ZANOm. 


i;o 

which  had  lately  asserted  its  ancient  powers  in  the  trial  of  the 
less  dangerous  Cagliostro.  All  was  in  vain ; not  a trace  of 
him  could  be  discovered.  I was  not  alone,  Adela.’*  Here 
Glyndon  paused  a moment,  as  if  embarrassed ; for  in  his  re- 
cital, I need  scarcely  say  that  he  had  only  indistinctly  alluded 
to  Fillide,  whom  the  reader  may  surmise  to  be  his  companion. 
“ I was  not  alone,  but  the  associate  of  my  wanderings  was 
not  one  in  whom  my  soul  could  confide — ^faithful  and  affec- 
tionate, but  without  education,  without  faculties  to  compre- 
hend me,  with  natural  instincts  rather  than  cultivated  reason — 
one  in  whom  the  heart  might  lean  in  its  careless  hours,  but 
with  whom  the  mind  could  have  no  commune,  in  whom  the 
bewildered  spirit  could  seek  no  guide.  Yet  in  the  society  of 
this  person  the  daemon  troubled  me  not.  Let  me  explain  yet 
more  fully  the  dread  conditions  of  its  presence.  In  coarse 
excitement,  in  commonplace  life,  in  the  wild  riot,  in  the  fierce 
excess,  in  the  torpid  lethargy  of  that  animal  existence  which 
we  share  with  the  brutes,  its  eyes  were  invisible,  its  whisper 
was  unheard.  But  whenever  the  soul  would  aspire,  wheneyer 
the  imagination  kindled  to  the  loftier  ends,  whenever  the  con- 
sciousness of  our  proper  destiny  struggled  against  the  un- 
worthy life  I pursued,  then — Adela,  then,  it  cowered  by  my 
side  in  the  light  of  noon,  or  sat  by  my  - bed — a Darkness  .visi- 
ble through  the  Dark.  If,  in  the  galleries  of  Divine  Art,  the 
dreams  of  my  youth  woke  the  early  emulation — if  I turned  to 
the  thoughts  of  sages — if  the  example  of  the  great,  if  the  con- 
verse of  the  wise,  aroused  the  silenced  intellect,  the  daemon 
was  with  me  as  by  a spell.  At  last,  one  evening  at  Genoa,  to 
which  city  I had  traveled  in  pursuit  of  the  Mystic,  suddenly, 
and  when  least  expected,  he  appeared  before  me.  It  was  the 
time  of  the  Carnival.  It  was  in  one  of  those  half-frantic  scenes 
of  noise  and  revel,  call  it  not  gayety,  which  establish  a hea- 
then saturnalia  in  the  midst  of  a Christian  festival.  Wearied 
with  the  dance,  I had  entered  a room  in  which  several  revel- 
ers were  seated,  drinking,  singing,  shouting ; and  in  their  fan- 
tastic dresses  and  hideous  masks,  their  orgie  seemed  scarcely 
human.  I placed  myself  among  them,  and  in  that  fearful 
excitement  of  the  spirits  which  the  happy  never  know,  I was 
soon  the  most  riotous  of  all.  The  conversation  fell  on  the 
Revolution  of  France,  which  had  always  possessed  for  me  an 
absorbing  fascination.  The  masks  spoke  of  the  millennium 
it  was  to  bring  on  earth,  not  as  philosophers  rejoicing  in  the 
advent  of  light,  but  as  ruffians  exulting  in  the  annihilation  of 
law.  I know  not  why  it  was,  but  their  licentious  language 


ZANOm, 


^7t 

infected  myself ; and,  always  desirous  to  be  foremost  in  every 
circle,  I soon  exceeded  even  these  rioters  in  declamations  on 
the  nature  of  the  liberty  which  was  about  to  embrace  all  the 
families  of  the  globe — a liberty  that  should  pervade  not  only 
public  legislation,  but  domestic  life — an  emancipation  from 
every  fetter  that  men  had  forged  for  themselves.  In  the 
midst  of  this  tirade,  one  of  the  masks  whispered  me — 

“ ‘ Take  care.  One  listens  to  you,  who  seems  to  be  a spy ! * 
“ My  eyes  followed  those  of  the  mask,  and  I observed  a man 
who  took  no  part  in  the  conversation,  but  whose  gaze  was  bent 
upon  me.  He  was  disguised  like  the  rest,  yet  I found  by  a 
general  whisper  that  none  had  observed  him  enter.  His  si- 
lence, his  attention,  had  alarmed  the  fears  of  the  other  revel- 
ers— they  only  excited  me  the  more.  Rapt  in  my  subject,  I 
pursued  it,  insensible  to  the  signs  of  those  about  me ; and,  ad- 
dressing myself  only  to  the  silent  mask  who  sat  alone,  apart 
from  the  group,  I did  not  even  observe  that,  one  by  one,  the 
revelers  slunk  off,  and  that  I and  the  silent  listener  were  left 
alone,  until,  pausing  from  my  heated  and  impetuous  declama- 
tions, I said — 

“ ‘ And  you,  signor, — what  is  your  view  of  this  mighty  era  ? 
Opinion  without  persecution — brotherhood  without  jealousy — 
love  without  bondage ’ 

“ ‘ And  life  without  God,’  added  the  mask,  as  I hesitated  for 
new  images. 

“ The  sound  of  that  well-known  voice  changed  the  current 
of  my  thought.  I sprung  forward  and  cried — 

“ ‘ Impostor  or  Fiend,  we  meet  at  last  1 * 

“The  figure  rose  as  I advanced,  and,  unmasking,  showed 
the  features  of  Mejnour.  His  fixed  eye — his  majestic  aspect, 
awed  and  repelled  me.  I stood  rooted  to  the  ground. 

“‘Yes,’  he  said,  solemnly,  ‘we  meet,  and  it  is  this  meeting 
that  I have  sought.  How  hast  thou  followed  my  admonitions  I 
Are  these  the  scenes  in  which  the  Aspirant  for  the  Serene 
Science  thinks  to  escape  the  Ghastly  Enemy  ? Do  the  thoughts 
thou  hast  uttered — thoughts  that  would  strike  all  order  from 
the  universe — express  the  hopes  of  the  sage  who  would  rise  to 
the  Harmony  of  the  Eternal  Spheres  ? ’ 

“ ‘ It  is  thy  fault — it  is  thine  ! ’ I exclaimed.  ‘ Exorcise  the 
phantom!  Take  the  haunting  terror  from  my  soul!  ’ 

“ Mejnour  looked  at  me  a moment  with  a cold  and  cynical 
disdain,  which  provoked  at  once  my  fear  and  rage,  and  re- 
plied— 

“ ‘ So,  fool  of  thine  own  senses ! No ; thou  must  have  ful) 


272 


ZANOm, 


and  entire  experience  of  the  illusions  to  which  the  knowledge 
that  is  without  Faith  climbs  its  Titan  way.  Thou  pantest 
for  this  Millennium — thou  shalt  behold  it ! Thou  shalt  be 
one  of  the  agents  of  the  era  of  Light  and  Reason.  I see,  while 
I speak,  the  Phantom  thou  fliest,  by  thy  side — it  marshals  thy 
path — it  has  power  over  thee  as  yet — a power  that  defies  my 
own.  In  the  last  days  of  that  Revolution  which  thou  hailest, 
amid  the  wrecks  of  the  Order  thou  cursest  as  Oppression, 
seek  the  fulfillment  of  thy  destiny,  and  await  thy  cure.* 

“ At  that  instant  a troop  of  masks,  clamorous,  intoxicated, 
reeling,  and  rushing  as  they  reeled,  poured  into  the  room, 
and  separated  me  from  the  Mystic.  I broke  through 
them,  and  sought  him  everywhere,  but  in  vain.  All  my 
researches  the  next  day  were  equally  fruitless.  Weeks 
were  consumed  in  the  same  pursuit — not  a trace  of 
Mejnour  could  be  discovered.  Wearied  with  false  pleas- 
ures, roused  by  reproaches  I had  deserved,  recoiling  from 
Mejnour’s  prophecy  of  the  scene  in  which  I was  to  seek  de- 
liverance, it  occurred  to  me,  at  last,  that  in  the  sober  air  of 
my  native  country,  and  amid  its  orderly  and  vigorous  pursuits, 
I might  work  out  my  own  emancipation  from  the  specter.  I 
left  all  whom  I had  before  courted  and  clung  to ; — I came 
hither.  Amid  mercenary  schemes  and  selfish  speculations, 
I found  the  same  relief  as  in  debauch  and  excess.  The  Phan- 
tom was  invisible  ; but  these  pursuits  soon  became  to  me  dis- 
tasteful as  the  rest.  Ever  and  ever  I felt  that  I was  born  for 
something  nobler  than  the  greed  of  gain — ^that  life  may  be 
made  equally  worthless,  and  the  soul  equally  degraded  by 
the  icy  lust  of  Avarice,  as  by  the  noisier  passions.  A higher 
Ambition  never  ceased  to  torment  me.  But,  but,” — -continued 
Glyndon,  with  a whitening  lip  and  a visible  shudder,  “ at  every 
attempt  to  rise  into  loftier  existence,  came  that  hideous  form. 
It  gloomed  beside  me  at  the  easel.  Before  the  volumes  of 
Poet  and  Sage  it  stood  with  its  burning  eyes  in  the  stillness 
of  night,  and  I thought  I heard  its  horrible  whispers  uttering 
temptations  never  to  be  divulged.”  He  paused,  and  the  drops 
stood  upon  his  brow. 

“ But  I,*’  said  Adela  mastering  her  fears,  and  throwing  her 
arms  around  him — “ but  I henceforth  will  have  no  life  but  in 
thine.  And  in  this  love,  so  pure,  so  holy,  thy  terror  shall  fade 
away.” 

“ No,  no  1 ” exclaimed  Glyndon  starting  from  her. 

“ The  worst  revelation  is  to  come. — Since  thou  hast  been 
here — since  I have  sternly  and  resolutely  refrained  from  every 


ZANONI. 


273 


haunt,  every  scene  in  which  this  preternatural  enemy  trou’ 
bled  me  not,  I — I — have — Oh,  Heaven ! Mercy — m^f rcy ! 
There  it  stands — there  by  thy  side — there — there  ! ” AiM  he 
fell  to  the  ground  insensible. 


CHAPTER  V. 

Doch  wunderbar  ergriff  mich’s  diese  Nacht ; 

Die  Glieder  schienen  schon  in  Todes  Macht.* 

Uhland. 

A FEVER,  attended  with  delirium,  for  several  days  deprived 
Glyndon  of  consciousness ; and  when,  by  Adela’s  care,  more 
than  the  skill  of  the  physicians,  he  was  restored  to  life  and 
reasoi),  he  was  unutterably  shocked  by  the  change  in  his  sis- 
ter’s appearance  ; at  first,  he  fondly  imagined  that  her  health, 
affected  by  her  vigils,  would  recover  with  his  own.  But  he 
soon  saw,  with  an  anguish  which  partook  of  remorse,  that  the 
malady  was  deep-seated — deep,  deep,  beyond  the  reach  of 
^sculapius  and  his  drugs.  Her  imagination,  little  less  lively 
than  his  own,  was  awfully  impressed  by  the  strange  confes- 
sions she  had  heard, — by  the  ravings  of  his  delirium.  Again 
and  again  had  he  shrieked  forth,  “ It  is  there-^there,  by  thy 
side,  my  sister  ! ” He  had  transferred  to  her  fancy  the  spec- 
ter, and  the  horror  that  cursed  himself.  He  perceived  this, 
not  by  her  words,  but  her  silence — by  the  eyes  that  strained  into 
space — by  the  shiver  that  came  over  her  frame — by  the  start 
of  terror — by  the  look  that  did  not  dare  to  turn  behind. 
Bitterly  he  repented  his  confession — bitterly  he  felt  that  be- 
tween his  sufferings  and  ^luman  sympathy,  there  could  be  no 
gentle  and  holy  commune ; vainly  he  sought  to  retract — to 
undo  what  he  had  done — to  declare  all  was  but  the  chimera 
of  an  over-heated  brain  ! 

And  brave  and  generous  was  this  denial  of  himself ; for, 
often  and  often,  as  he  thus  spoke,  he  saw  the  Thing  of  Dread 
gliding  to  her  side,  and  glaring  at  him  as  he  disowned  its  be- 
ing. But  what  chilled  him,  if  possible,  yet  more  than  her 
wasting  form  and  trembling  nerves,  was  the  change  in  her 
love  for  him ; a natural  terror  had  replaced  it.  She  turned 
paler  if  he  approached — she  shuddered  if  he  took  her  hand. 

* This  night  it  fearfully  seized  on  m» ; my  limbs  appeared  already  in  the  powar 
ox  death 

18 


274 


ZANONI. 


Divided  from  the  rest  of  earth,  the  gulf  of  the  foul  remem^ 
brance  yawned  now  between  his  sister  and  himself.  He  could 
endure  no  more  the  presence  of  the  one  whose  life  his  life  had 
embittered.  He  made  some  excuses  for  departure,  and 
writhed  to  see  that  they  were  greeted  eagerly.  The  first 
gleam  of  joy  he  had  detected,  since  that  fatal  night,  on 
A-dela^s  face,  he  beheld  when  he  murmured  “ Farewell.’* 
He  traveled  for  some  weeks  through  the  wildest  parts  of 
Scotland ; scenery,  which  makes  the  artist,  was  loveless  to  his 
haggard  eyes.  A letter  recalled  him  to  London,  on  the  wings 
of  new  agony  and  fear ; he  arrived  to  find  his  sister  in  a con- 
dition both  of  mind  and  health  which  exceeded  his  worst 
apprehensions. 

Her  vacant  look — her  lifeless  posture,  appalled  him;  it 
was  as  one  who  gazed  on  the  Medusa’s  head,  and  felt,  with- 
out a struggle,  the  human  being  gradually  harden  to  the 
statue.  It  was  not  frenzy,  it  was  not  idiotcy — it  was  an  ab- 
straction, an  apathy,  a sleep  in  waking.  Only  as  the  night 
advanced  toward  the  eleventh  hour, — the  hour  in  which  Glyn- 
don  had  concluded  his  tale,  she  grew  visibly  uneasy,  anxious, 
and  perturbed.  Then  her  lips  muttered,  her  hands  writhed ; 
she  looked  round  with  a look  of  unspeakable  appeal  for  suc- 
cor— ^for  protection ; and  suddenly,  as  the  clock  struck,  fell 
with  a shriek  to  the  ground,  cold  and  lifeless.  With  difficulty, 
and  not  until  after  the  most  earnest  prayers,  did  she  answer 
the  agonized  questions  of  Glyndon ; at  last  she  owned  that 
at  that  hour,  and  that  hour  alone,  wherever  she  was  placed, 
however  occupied,  she  distinctly  beheld  the  apparition  of  an 
old  hag ; who,  after  thrice  knocking  at  the  door,  entered  the 
room,  and  hobbling  up  to  her,  with  a countenance  distorted 
by  hideous  rage  and  menace,  laid  its  icy  fingers  on  her  fore- 
head ; from  that  moment  she  declared-^that  sense  forsook  her ; 
and  when  she  woke  again,  it  was  only  to  wait,  in  suspense 
that  froze  up  her  blood,  the  repetition  of  the  ghastly  visitation. 

The  physician  who  had  been  summoned  before  Glyndon’s 
return,  and  whose  letter  had  recalled  him  to  London,  was  a 
commonplace  practitioner ; ignorant  of  the  case,  and  honestly 
anxious  that  one  more  experienced  should  be  employed. 
Clarence  called  in  one  of  the  most  eminent  of  the  faculty, 
and  to  him  he  recited  the  optical  delusion  of  his  sister.  The 
physician  listened  attentively,  and  seemed  sanguine  in  his 
hopes  of  cure.  He  came  to  the  house  two  hours  before  the 
one  so  dreaded  by  the  patient.  He  had  quietly  arranged 
that  the  clocks  should  be  put  forward  half  an  hour,  unknown 


ZANONL 


'^7S 


to  Adela,  and  even  to  her  brother.  He  was  a man  of  the 
most  extraordinary  powers  of  conversation,  of  surpassing  wit, 
of  all  the  faculties  that  interest  and  amuse.  He  first  admin- 
istered to  the  patient  a harmless  potion,  which  h»  pledged 
himself  would  dispel  the  delusion.  His  confident  tone  woke 
her  own  hopes — he  continued  to  excite  her  attention,  to  rouse 
her  lethargy;  he  jested,  he  laughed  away  the  time.  The 
hour  struck.  “Joy,  my  brother!”  she  exclaimed,  throwing 
herself  in  his  arms ; “ the  time  is  past ! ” And  then,  like  one 
released  from  a spell,  she  suddenly  assumed  more  than  her 
ancient  cheerfulness.  “ Ah,  Clarence  1 ” she  whispered,  “ for- 
give me  for  my  former  desertion — forgive  me  that  I 
feared  you.  I shall  live  ! — I shall  live  ! in  my  turn  to  banish 
the  specter  that  haunts  my  brother  I ” And  Clarence  smiled 
and  wiped  the  tears  from  his  burning  eyes.  The  physician 
renewed  his  stories,  his  jests.  In  the  midst  of  a stream  of 
rich  humor,  that  seemed  to  carry  away  both  brother  and  sis- 
ter, Glyndon  suddenly  saw  over  Adela’s  face  the  same  fear- 
ful change,  the  same  anxious  look,  the  same  restless,  straining 
eye,  he  had  beheld  the  night  before.  He  rose — he 
approached  her.  Adela  started  up.  “ Look — look — look  ! ” 
she  exclaimed.  “ She  comes  I Save  me — save  me  ! ” and 
she  fell  at  his  feet  in  strong  convulsions ; as  the  clock,  falsely 
and  in  vain  put  back,  struck  the  half-hour. 

The  physician  lifted  her  in  his  arms.  “ My  worst  fears 
are  confirmed,”  he  said  gravely ; “ the  disease  is  epilepsy.”* 

The  next  night,  at  the  same  hour,  Adela  Glyndon  died. 


CHAPTER  VI 

JLa  lol,  dont  le  r^gne  vous  4pouvante,  a son  glaive  lev4  sur  vous  j elle  vous  frapper* 
tous : le  genre  humain  a besoin  de  cet  exemple.f — Couthon.  b 

“ Oh,  joy,  joy  1 — thou  art  come  again  1 This  is  thy  hand 
— these  thy  lips.  Say  that  thou  didst  not  desert  me  from  the 
love  of  another;  say  it  again — say  it  ever! — and  I will  par- 
don thee  all  the  rest  1 ” 

* The  most  celebrated  practitioner  in  Dublin  related  to  the  Editor  a story  of 
optical  delusion,  precisely  similar  in  its  circumstances  and  its  physical  cause,  to  the 
one  here  narrated. 

t The  law,  whose  reign  terrifies  you,  has  its  sword  raised  against  you  ; it  wii» 
strike  you  all ; humanity  has  need  of  this  example. 


276 


ZANONI. 


“ So  thou  hast  mourned  for  me  ? ” 

“ Mourned  ! — and  thou  wert  cruel  enough  to  leave  me  gold 
— there  it  is — there — untouched  ! ” 

“ Poor  child  of  Nature  ! how,  then,  in  this  strange  town  of 
Marseilles,  hast  thou  found  bread  and  shelter  ? ” 

“ Honestly,  soul  of  my  soul ! honestly,  but  yet  by  the  face 
thou  didst  once  think  so  fair  ; thinkest  thou  that  now  ? ” 

‘‘Yes,  Fillide,  more  fair  than  ever.  But  what  meanest 
thou  ? ” 

“ There  is  a painter  here — a great  man,  one  of  their  great 
men  at  Paris — I know  not  what  they  call  them ; but  he  rules 
over  all  here — life  and  death ; and  he  has  paid  me  largely 
but  to  sit  for  my  portrait.  It  is  for  a picture  to  be  given  to 
the  Nation,  for  he  paints  only  for  glory.  Think  of  thy  Fil- 
lide’s  renown  ! ” and  the  girl’s  wild  eyes  sparkled  ; her  vanity 
was  roused.  “ And  he  would  have  married  me  if  I would  ! — 
divorced  his  wife  to  marry  me ! But  I waited  for  thee, 
ungrateful ! ” 

A knock  at  the  door  was  heard — a man  entered. 

“ Nicot!” 

“ Ah,  Glyndon ! — hum ! — welcome  ! What ! thou  art  twice  my 
rival ! But  Jean  Nicot  bears  no  malice.  Virtue  is  my  dream 
— my  country — my  mistress.  Serve  my  country,  citizen  ; and 
I forgive  thee  the  preference  of  beauty.  Ca  ira  ! fa  ira  / ” 

But  as  the  painter  spoke,  it  hymned,  it  rolled  through  the 
streets — the  fiery  song  of  the  Marseillaise!  There  was  a 
crowd — a multitude — a people  up,  abroad,  with  colors  and 
arms,  enthusiasm  and  song ; — ^with  song,  with  enthusiam, 
with  colors  and  arms  1 And  who  could  guess  that  that 
martial  movement  was  one,  not  of  war,  but  massacre — French- 
men against  Frenchmen  ! For  there  are  two  parties  in  Mar- 
seilles— and  ample  work  for  Jourdan  Coupe-tete  ! But  this, 
the  Englishman  just  arrived,  a stranger  to  all  factions,  did 
not  as  yet  comprehend.  He  comprehended  nothing  but  the 
song,  the  enthusiasm,  the  arms,  and  the  colors  that  lifted  to 
the  sun  the  glorious  lie — “ Le peuple  Frangais^  debout  contre 
les  tyrans 

The  dark  brow  of  the  wretched  wanderer  grew  animated ; 
he  gazed  from  the  window  on  the  throng  that  marched  below, 
beneath  their  waving  Oriflamme.  They  shouted  as  they  beheld 
the  patriot  Nicot,  the  friend  of  Liberty  and  relentless  Hdbert, 
by  the  stranger’s  side,  at  the  casement. 


♦ up,  Frenchmen,  against  tyrants. 


ZANONL 


277 


“ Ay,  shout  again  ! ” cried  the  painter — “ shout  for  the 
brave  Englishman  who  abjures  hi’s  Pitts  and  his  Coburgs  to 
be  a citizen  of  Liberty  and  France  ! ” 

A thousand  voices  rent  the  air,  and  the  hymn  of  the 
Marseillaise  rose  in  majesty  again. 

“ Well,  and  if  it  be  among  these  high  hopes  and  this  brave 
people  that  the  phantom  is  to  vanish,  and  the  cure  to  come  ! ” 
muttered  Glyndon  ; and  he  thought  he  felt  again  the  elixir 
sparkling  through  his  veins. 

“Thou  shalt  be  one  of  the  convention  with  Paine  and 
Clootz — I will  manage  it  all  for  thee  1 ” cried  Nicot,  slapping 

him  on  the  shoulder ; “ and  Paris ” 

“ Ah,  if  I could  but  see  Paris  ! ” cried  Fillide,  in  her 
joyous  voice.  Joyous ! the  whole  time,  the  town,  the  air — 
save  where,  unheard,  rose  the  cry  of  agony  and  the  yell  of 
murder — ^were  joy ! Sleep  unhaunting  in  thy  grave,  cold 
Adela.  Joy,  joy ! In  the  Jubilee  of  Humanity,  all  private 
griefs  should  cease  ! Behold,  wild  Mariner,  the  vast  whirl- 
pool draws  thee  to  its  stormy  bosom.  There  the  individual  is 
not.  All  things  are  of  the  whole.  Open  thy  gates,  fair 
Paris,  for  the  stranger-citizen  ! Receive  in  your  ranks,  O 
meek  Republicans,  the  new  champion  of  liberty,  of  reason,  of 
mankind!  “ Mejnour  is  right t it  was  in  virtue,  in  valor,  in 
glorious  struggle  for  the  human  race,  that  the  specter  was  to 
shrink  to  her  kindred  darkness.” 

And  Nicot’s  shrill  voice  praised  him ; and  lean  Robespierre 
— “Flambeau,  colonne,  pierre  angulaire  de  Tedifice  de  la 
Rdpublique  — smiled  ominously  on  him  from  his  bloodshot 

eyes ; and  Fillide  clasped  him  with  passionate  arms  to  her 
tender  breast.  And  at  his  up-rising  and  down-sitting,  at 
board  and  in  bed,  though  he  saw  it  not,  the  Nameless  One 
guided  him  with  the  daemon  eyes  to  the  sea,  whose  waves 
were  gore. 

♦ **  Yhe  light,  column,  and  key-stone  of  the  Republic.”  Lettre  du  Citoyen 
F- — . Papicrs  inedits  trouveschez  Robespierre.— Tom.  ii,  p.  127. 


V 


ZANONL 


279 


BOOK  VI. 

SUPERSTITION  DESERTING  FAITH. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Theitfore  the  Genii  were  painted  with  a platter  full  of  garlands  and  flowers  in 
one  hand,  and  a whip  in  the  other. — Alexander  Ross,  Mystag.  Poet. 

According  to  the  order  of  the  events  related  in  this  nar- 
rative, the  departure  of  Zanoni  and  Viola  from  the  Greek 
Isle,  in  which  two  happy  years  appear  to  have  been  passed, 
must  have  been  somewhat  later  in  date  than  the  arrival  of 
Glyndon  at  Marseilles.  It  must  have  been  in  the  course  of 
the  year  1791  when  Viola  fled  from  Naples  with  her  myste- 
rious lover,  and  when  Glyndon  sought  Mejnour  in  the  fatal 
castle.  It  is  now  toward  the  close  of  1793,  when  our  story 
again  returns  to  Zanoni.  The  stars  of  winter  shone  down  on 
the  Lagunes  of  Venice.  The  hum  of  the  Rialto  was  hushed 
— the  last  loiterers  had  deserted  the  place  of  St.  Mark’s,  and 
only  at  distant  intervals  might  be  heard  the  oars  of  the  rapid 
gondolas,  bearing  reveler  or  lover  to  his  home.  But  lights 
still  flitted  to  and  fro  across  the  windows  of  one  of  the  Palla- 
dian  palaces,  whose  shadow  slept  in  the  great  canal ; and 
within  the  Palace  watched  the  twin  Eumenides,  that  never 
sleep  for  Man, — Fear  and  Pain. 

“I  will  make  thee  the  richest  man  in  all  Venice,  if  thou 
savest  her.” 

“ Signor,”  said  the  Leach,  “ your  gold  cannot  control  death, 
and  the  will  of  Heaven — Signor,  unless  within  the  next  hour 
there  is  some  blessed  change,  prepare  your  courage.” 

Ho— ho,  Zanoni ! man  of  mystery  and  might,  who  hast 
walked  amid  the  passions  of  the  world,  with  no  changes  on 
thy  brow,  art  thou  tossed  at  last  upon  the  billows  of  tempcs* 


28o 


ZANONI. 


tuous  fear  ? — Does  thy  spirit  reel  to  and  fro  ? — knowest  thou 
at  last  the  strength  and  the  majesty  of  Death  ? 

He  fled,  trembling,  from  the  pale-faced  man  of  art — fled 
through  stately  hall  and  long-drawn  corridor,  and  gained  a 
remote  chamber  in  the  Palace,  which  other  step  than  his  was 
not  permitted  to  profane.  Out  with  thy  herbs  and  vessels. 
Break,  from  the  enchanted  elements,  O silvery-azure  flame  ! ( 
Why  comes  he  not — the  Son  of  the  Star-beam  j Why  is 
Adon-Ai  deaf  to  thy  solemn  call ! It  comes  not — the  lumi- 
nous and  delightsome  Presence  ! Cabalist ! are  thy  charms 
in  vain  ? Has  thy  throne  vanished  from  the  realms  of  space  ? 
Thou  standest  pale  and  trembling.  Pale  trembler ! not 
thus  didst  thou  look,  when  the  things  of  glory  gathered  at  thy 
spell.  Never  to  the  pale  trembler  bow  the  things  of  glory : — 
the  soul,  and  not  the  herbs,  nor  the  silvery-azure  flame,  nor 
the  spells  of  the  Cabala,  commands  the  children  of  the  air ; 
and  thy  soul,  by  Love  and  Death,  is  made  scepterless  and 
discrowned  ! 

At  length  the  flame  quivers— the  air  grows  cold  as  the  wind 
in  charnels.  A thing  not  of  earth  is  present — a mist-like 
formless  thing.  It  cowers  in  the  distance — a silent  Horror! 
it  rises — it  creeps — it  nears  thee — dark  in  its  mantle  of  dusky 
haze  ; and  under  its  veil  it  looks  on  thee  with  its  livid,  malig- 
nant eyes— the  thing  of  malignant  eyes  ! 

“ Ha,  young  Chaldaean  I young  in  thy  countless  ages — 
young  as  when,  cold  to  pleasure  and  to  beauty,  thou  stoodest 
on  the  old  Fire-tower,  and  heardest  the  starry  silence  whisper 
to  thee  the  last  mystery  that  baffles  Death, — ^fearest  thou 
Death  at  length  ? Is  thy  knowledge  but  a circle  that  brings 
thee  back  whence  thy  wanderings  began  ! Generations  on 
generations  have  withered  since  we  two  met  1 Lo  ! thou  be- 
boldest  me  now  I ” 

“ But  I behold  thee  without  fear  ! Though  beneath  thine 
eyes  thousands  have  perished ; though,  where  they  burn, 
spring  up  the  foul  poisons  of  the  human  heart,  and  to  those 
whom  thou  canst  subject  to  thy  will,  thy  presence  glares  in 
the  dreams  of  the  raving  maniac,  or  blackens  the  dungeon  of 
despairing  crime,  thou  art  not  my  vanquisher,  but  my  slave  ! ’’ 

“ And  as  a slave  will  I serve  thee  ! Command  thy  slave, 
O beautiful  Chaldaean  I — Hark,  the  wail  of  women  ! — hark, 
the  sharp  shriek  of  thy  beloved  one  1 Death  is  in  thy  palace  \ 
Adon-Ai  comes  not  to  thy  call.  Only  where  no  clouds  of  the 
passion  and  the  flesh  veils  the  eye  of  the  Serene  Intelligence 
can  the  Sons  of  the  Star-beam  glide  to  man.  But  / can  aid 


ZANONL 


28\ 


thee  ! hark ! ” And  Zanoni  heard  distinctly  in  his  heart, 

even  at  that  distance  from  the  chamber,  the  voice  of  Viola, 
calling  in  delirium  on  her  beloved  one. 

“ Oh,  Viola,  I can  save  thee  not ! '’  exclaimed  the  Seer, 
passionately ; “ my  love  for  thee  has  made  me  powerless  ! ” 
“ Not  powerless ; I can  gift  thee  with  the  art  to  save  her — 
t can  place  healing  in  thy  hand  ! ” 

“ For  both  ? child  and  mother — ^for  both  ? ” 

“ Both ! ” 

A convulsion  shook  the  limbs  of  the  Seer— a mighty  strug- 
gle shook  him  as  a child : the  Humanity  and  the  Hour  con- 
quered the  repugnant  spirit. 

“ I yield  1 Mother  and  child — save  both  1 ” 

******* 

In  the  dark  chamber  lay  Viola,  in  the  sharpest  agonies  of 
travail ; life  seemed  rending  itself  away  in  the  groans  and 
cries  that  spoke  of  pain  in  the  midst  of  frenzy  ; and  still,  in 
groan  and  cry,  she  called  on  Zanoni,  her  beloved.  The  phy- 
sician looked  to  the  clock ; on  it  beat — the  Heart  of  Time, — 
regularly  and  slowly — Heart  that  never  sympathized  with  Life, 
and  never  flagged  for  Death  ! “ The  cries  are  fainter,”  said 

the  leech  ; “ in  ten  minutes  more,  all  will  be  past.” 

Fool ! the  minutes  laugh  at  thee  ; Nature  even  now,  like  a 
blue  sky  through  a shattered  temple,  is  smiling  through  the  tor- 
tured frame.  The  breathing  grows  more  calm  and  hushed — 
the  voice  of  delirium  is  dumb — a sweet  dream  has  come  to 
Viola.  Is  it  a dream,  or  is  it  the  soul  that  sees  ? She  thinks 
suddenly  that  she  is  with  Zanoni,  that  her  burning  head  is  pil- 
lowed on  his  bosom  ; she  thinks  as  he  gazes  on  her,  that  his 
eyes  dispel  the  tortures  that  prey  upon  her — the  touch  of  his 
hand  cools  the  fever  on  her  brow ; she  hears  his  voice  in 
murmurs — it  is  a music  from  which  the  fiends  fly.  Where  is 
the  mountain  that  seemed  to  press  upon  her  temples  ? Like 
a vapor,  it  rolls  away.  In  the  frosts  of  the  winter  night,  she 
sees  the  sun  laughing  in  luxurious  heaven — she  hears  the  whis- 
per of  green  leaves  ; the  beautiful  world,  valley,  and  stream, 
and  woodland,  lie  before,  and  with  a common  voice  speak  to 
her — “ We  are  not  yet  past  for  thee  ! ” Fool  of  drugs  and 
formula,  look  to  thy  dial-plate  ! — the  hand  has  moved  on  ; the 
minutes  are  with  Eternity ; the  soul  thy  sentence  would  have 
dismissed,  still  dwells  on  the  shores  of  Time.  She  sleeps  ; the 
fever  abates ; the  convulsions  are  gone  ; the  living  rose  blooms 
upon  her  cheek  ; the  crisis  is  past ! Husband,  thy  wife  lives  I 
lovefj  thy  universe  is  no  solitude.  Heart  of  Time,  beat  on  % 


282 


ZANOm» 


A while — a little  while — ^joy  ! joy ! joy ! — father,  embrace  thji 
child ! 


CHAPTER  II. 

tristis  Erinnys 

Prsetulit  infaustas  sanguinolenta  faces.* 

Ovid. 

And  they  placed  the  child  in  the  father’s  arms ! As 
silently  he  bent  over  it,  tears — tears,  how  human  ! — fell  from 
his  eyes  like  rain  ! And  the  little  one  smiled  through  the 
tears  that  bathed  its  cheeks  ! Ah,  with  what  happy  tears  we 
welcome  the  stranger  into  our  sorrowing  world  ! With  what 
agonizing  tears  we  dismiss  the  stranger  back  to  the  angels  I 
Unselfish  joy  ; but  how  selfish  is  the  sorrow  ! 

And  now  through  the  silent  chamber  a faint  sweet  voice  is 
heard — the  young  mother’s  voice. 

“ I am  here  : I am  by  thy  side  ! ” murmured  Zanoni. 

The  mother  smiled,  and  clasped  his  hand,  and  asked  no 
more  ; she  was  contented. 

“vT  ^ “TV  ^ ^ •yv  "TT 

Viola  recovered  with  a rapidity  that  startled  the  physician  : 
and  the  young  stranger  thrived  as  if  it  already  loved  the 
world  to  which  it  had  descended.  From  that  hour  Zanoni 
seemed  to  live  in  the  infant’s  life  ; and  in  that  life  the  souls 
of  mother  and  father  met  as  in  a new  bond.  Nothing  more 
beautiful  than  this  infant  had  eye  ever  dwelt  upon.  It  was 
strange  to  the  nurses  that  it  came  not  wailing  to  the  light,  but 
smiled  to  the  light  as  a thing  familiar  to  it  before.  It  never 
uttered  one  cry  of  childish  pain.  In  its  very  repose  it  seemed 
to  be  listening  to  some  happy  voice  within  its  heart : it  seemed 
itself  so  happy.  In  its  eyes  you  would  have  thought  intellect 
already  kindled,  though  it  had  not  yet  found  a language. 
Already  it  seemed  to  recognize  its  parents ; already  it 
stretched  forth  its  arms  when  Zanoni  bent  over  the  bed 
in  which  it  breathed  and  bloomed, — the  budding  flower  ! 
And  from  that  bed  he  was  rarely  absent : gazing  upon  it  with 
his  serene,  delighted  eyes,  his  soul  seemed  to  feed  its  own. 
At  night  and  in  utter  darkness  he  was  still  there  ; and  Viola 
often  heard  him  murmuring  over  it  as  she  lay  in  a half-sleep. 
But  the  murmur  was  in  a language  strange  to  her ; and  some* 

* Erinnys,  doleful  and  bloody,  extends  the  unblessed  torches. 


ZANONL 


283 


iimes  when  she  heard,  she  feared,  and  vague,  undefined  supen 
stitions  came  back  to  her — the  superstitions  of  earlier  youth. 
A mother  fears  everything,  even  the  gods,  for  her  new-born. 
The  mortals  shrieked  aloud,  when  of  old  they  saw  the  great 
Demeter  seeking  to  make  their  child  immortal ! 

But  Zanoni,  wrapt  in  the  sublime  designs  that  animated  the 
numan  love  to  which  he  was  now  awakened,  forgot  all,  even 
jill  he  had  forfeited  or  incurred,  in  the  love  that  blinded  him. 

But  the  dark,  formless  thing,  though  he  nor  invoked  nor 
saw  it,  crept,  often,  round  and  round  him  : and  often  sat  by 
the  infant’s  couch,  with  its  hateful  eyes. 


CHAPTER  III. 

Fuscis  tellurem  amplectitur  alis.* — ^Virgil. 

LETTER  FROM  ZANONI  TO  MEJNOUR. 

Mejnour,  Humanity,  with  all  its  sorrows  and  its  joys,  is 
mine  once  more.  Day  by  day,  I am  forging  my  own  fetters. 
I live  in  other  lives  than  my  own,  and  in  them  I have  lost 
more  than  half  my  empire.  Not  lifting  them  aloft,  they  drag 
me  by  the  strong  bands  of  the  affections  to  their  own  earth. 
Exiled  from  the  beings  only  visible  to  the  most  abstract 
sense,  the  grim  Enemy  that  guards  the  Threshold  has  en- 
tangled me  in  its  web.  Canst  thou  credit  me,  when  I tell 
thee  that  I have  accepted  its  gifts  and  endure  the  forfeit  ? 
Ages  must  pass  ere  the  brighter  beings  can  again  obey  the 

spirit  that  has  bowed  to  the  ghastly  one  ! And — 

* * * * * * ** 

in  this  hope,  then,  Mejnour,  I triumph  still ; I yet  have 
supreme  power  over  this  young  life.  Insensibly  and  in- 
audibly  my  soul  speaks  to  its  own  and  prepares  it  even  now. 
Thou  knowest  that  for  the  pure  and  unsullied  infant  spirit, 
the  ordeal  has  no  terror  and  no  peril.  Thus  unceasingly  I 
nourish  it  with  no  unholy  light ; and  ere  it  yet  be  conscious  of 
the  gift,  it  will  gain  the  privileges  it  has  been  mine  to  attain  : 
the  child,  by  slow  and  scarce-seen  degrees,  will  communicate 
its  own  attributes  to  the  mother ; and  content  to  see  Youth 
forever  radiant  on  the  brows  of  the  two  that  now  suffice  to 
fill  up  my  whole  infinity  of  thought,  shall  I regret  the  airiei 

* Embraces  the  Earth  with  gloomy  wings. 


2S4 


ZANONL 


kingdom  that  vanishes  hourly  from  my  grasp  ? But  thou, 
whose  vision  is  still  clear  and  serene,  look  into  the  far  deep? 
shut  from  my  gaze,  and  counsel  me,  or  forewarn  ! I know 
that  the  gifts  of  the  Being  whose  race  is  so  hostile  to  our  own, 
are,  to  the  common  seeker,  fatal  and  perfidious  as  itself. 
And  hence,  when  at  the  outskirts  of  knowledge,  which  in 
earlier  ages  men  called  Magic,  they  encountered  the  things  of 
the  hostile  tribes,  they  believed  the  apparitions  to  be  fiends, 
and,  by  fancied  compacts,  imagined  they  had  signed  away 
their  souls ; as  if  man  could  give  for  an  eternity  that  over 
which  he  has  control  but  while  he  lives ! Dark,  and 
shrouded  forever  from  human  sight,  dwell  the  daemon  rebels, 
in  their  impenetrable  realm ; in  them  is  no  breath  of  the 
Divine  One.  In  every  human  creature  the  Divine  One 
breathes  ; and  He  alone  can  judge  His  own  hereafter  and 
allot  its  new  career  and  home.  Could  man  sell  himself  to  the 
fiend,  man  could  prejudge  himself,  and  arrogate  the  disposal 
of  eternity  ! But  these  creatures,  modifications  as  they  are  of 
matter,  and  some  with  more  than  the  malignity  of  man,  may 
well  seem,  to  fear  and  unreasoning  superstition,  the  repre- 
sentatives of  fiends.  And  from  the  darkest  and  mightiest  of 
them  I have  accepted  a boon — the  secret  that  startled  Death 
from  those  so  dear  to  me.  Can  I not  trust  that  enough  of 
power  yet  remains  to  me,  to  baffle  or  to  daunt  the  Phantom, 
if  it  seek  to  pervert  the  gift  ? Answer  me,  Mejnour  ; for  in 
the  darkness  that  veils  me,  I see  only  the  pure  eyes  of  the 
new-born ; I hear  only  the  low  beating  of  my  heart.  An- 
swer me,  thou  whose  wisdom  is  without  love  1 

MEJNOUR  TO  ZANONI. 

Rome. 

Fallen  one  ! — I see  before  thee  Evil,  and  Death,  and  Woe  ! 
Thou  to  have  relinquished  Adon-Ai,  for  the  nameless  Terror 
— the  heavenly  stars  for  those  fearful  eyes  ! Thou,  at  the 
last  to  be  the  victim  of  the  Larva  of  the  dreary  Threshold, 
that,  in  thy  first  novitiate,  fled,  withered  and  shriveled,  from 
thy  kingly  brow ! When,  at  the  primary  grades  of  initiation, 
the  pupil  I took  from  thee  on  the  shores  of  the  changed  Par- 
thenope,  fell  senseless  and  cowering  before  that  Phantom* 
Darkness,  I knew  that  his  spirit  was  not  formed  to  front  the 
worlds  beyond ; for  fear  is  the  attraction  of  man  to 
earthiest  earth ; and  while  he  fears,  he  cannot  soar.  But 
thou^  seest  thou  not  that  to  love  is  but  to  fear  ? — seest  thou 
not,  that  the  power  of  which  thou  boastest  over  the  malignant 


ZAJV0JV7. 


285 


one  is  already  gone  ? It  awes,  it  masters  thee  ; it  will  mock 
thee  and  betray.  Lose  not  a moment ; come  to  me.  If  there 
can  yet  be  sufficient  sympathy  between  us,  through  my  eyes 
shalt  thou  see,  and  perhaps  guard  against  the  perils  that, 
shapeless  yet,  and  looming  through  the  shadow,  marshal 
themselves  around  thee  and  those  whom  thy  very  love  has 
doomed.  Come  from  all  the  ties  of  thy  fond  humanity  ; they 
will  but  obscure  thy  vision  ! Come  forth  from  thy  fears  and 
hopes,  thy  desires  and  passions.  Come,  as  alone  Mind  can 
be  the  monarch  and  the  seer  shining  through  the  home  it 
tenants — a pure,  impressionless,  sublime  intelligence  ! 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Plus  que  vous  ne  pensez  ce  moment  est  terrible.* 

La  Harpe,  Le  Comte  de  Warwick^  Act  3,  sc.  5. 

Fok  the  first  time  since  their  union,  Zanoni  and  Viola  were 
separated — Zanoni  went  to  Rome  on  important  business. 
“ It  was,”  he  said,  “ but  for  a few  days  : ” and  he  went  so 
suddenly  that  there  was  little  time  either  for  surprise  or  sor- 
row. But  first  parting  is  always  more  melancholy  than  it 
need  be ; it  seems  an  interruption  to  the  existence  which 
Love  shares  with  Love  ; it  makes  the  heart  feel  what  a void 
life  will  be  when  the  last  parting  shall  succeed,  as  succeed  it 
must,  the  first.  But  Viola  had  a new  companion  ; she  was 
enjoying  that  most  delicious  novelty  which  ever  renews  the 
youth  and  dazzles  the  eyes  of  woman.  As  the  mistress — the 
wife — she  leans  on  another  ; from  another  are  reflected  her 
happiness,  her  being — as  an  orb  that  takes  light  from  its 
sun.  But  now,  in  turn,  as  the  mother,  she  is  raised  from  de- 
pendence into  power ; it  is  another  that  leans  on  her — a star 
has  sprung  into  space,  to  which  she  herself  has  become  the 
sun ! 

A few  days — ^but  they  will  be  sweet  through  the  sorrow  ! 
A few  days — every  hour  of  which  seems  an  era  to  the  infant, 
over  whom  bend  watchful  the  eyes  and  the  heart.  From  its 
waking  to  its  sleep,  from  its  sleep  to  its  waking,  is  a revolu- 
tion in  Time.  Every  gesture  to  be  noted — every  smile  to 
seem  a new  progress  into  the  world  it  has  come  to  bless  ! 
Zanoni  has  gone — the  last  dash  of  the  oar  is  lost — the  last 

* The  moment  is  more  terrible  than  you  think. 


286 


ZANOm. 


speck  of  the  gondola  has  vanished  from  the  ocean-streets  of 
Venice  1 Her  infant  is  sleeping  in  the  cradle  at  the  mother’s 
feet ; and  she  thinks  through  her  tears  what  tales  of  the  fairy- 
land, that  spreads  far  and  wide,  with  a thousand  wonders,  in 
that  narrow  bed,  she  shall  have  to  tell  the  father ! Smile  on 
— weep  on,  young  mother  ! Already  the  fairest  leaf  in  the 
wild  volume  is  closed  for  thee  ! and  the  invisible  finger  turns 
the  page  ! 

^ ^ ^ ^ 

“Tv*  ^ ^ ^ *7?“  •TV*  ^ ^ 

By  the  bridge  of  the  Rialto  stood  two  Venetians — ardent 
Republicans  and  Democrats — looking  to  the  Revolution  of 
France  as  the  earthquake  which  must  shatter  their  own  expir- 
ing and  vicious  constitution,  and  give  equality  of  ranks  and 
rights  to  Venice. 

“Yes,  Cottalto,”  said  one;  “my  correspondent  of  Paris 
has  promised  to  elude  all  obstacles,  and  baffle  all  danger. 
He  will  arrange  with  us  the  hour  of  revolt,  when  the  legions 
of  France  shall  be  within  hearing  of  our  guns.  One  day  in 
this  week,  at  this  hour,  he  is  to  meet  me  here.  This  is  but 
the  fourth  day.” 

He  had  scarce  said  these  words  before  a man,  wrapped  in 
his  roquelaire^  emerging  from  one  of  the  narrow  streets  to  the 
left,  halted  opposite  the  pair,  and  eyeing  them  for  a few 
moments  with  an  earnest  scrutiny,  whispered — ^'‘SalutP^ 
Etfraternitk^'^  answered  the  speaker. 

“ You,  then,  are  the  brave  Dandolo  with  whom  the  Comith 
deputed  me  to  correspond  1 And  this  citizen ? ” 

“ Is  Cottalto,  whom  my  letters  have  so  often  mentioned.”  * 

“ Health  and  brotherhood  to  him  ! I have  much  to  impart 
to  you  both.  I will  meet  you  at  night,  Dandolo.  But  in  the 
streets  we  may  be  observed.” 

“ And  I dare  not  appoint  my  own  house  ; tyranny  makes 
spies  of  our  very  walls.  But  the  place  herein  designated  is 
secure  ; ” and  he  slipped  an  address  into  the  hand  of  his  cor- 
respondent. 

“ To-night,  then,  at  nine ! Meanwhile  I have  other  busi- 
ness.” The  man  paused,  his  color  changed,  and  it  was  with 
an  eager  and  passionate  voice  that  he  resumed — 

“Your  last  letter  mentioned  this  wealthy  and  mysterious 
visitor — this  Zanoni.  He  is  still  at  Venice  ? ” 

* I know  not  if  the  author  of  the  original  MSS.  designs,  under  these  names,  to  in- 
troduce the  real  Cottalto  and  the  true  Dandolo,  who  in  1797  distinguished  them- 
selves by  their  sympathy  with  the  French,  and  their  democratic  ardor. — Ed. 


ZANONL  287 

I heard  that  he  had  left  this  morning but  his  wife  is  still 
here.” 

“ His  wife  ! — that  is  well ! ” 

“ What  know  you  of  him  ? Think  you  that  he  would  join 
us  ? His  wealth  would  be ” 

“ His  house,  his  address — quick  ! ” interrupted  the  man. 

“ The  Palazzo  di , on  the  Grand  Canal.” 

“ I thank  you — at  nine  we  meet.” 

The  man  hurried  on  through  the  street  from  which  he  had 
emerged  ; and,  passing  by  the  house  in  which  he  had  taken 
up  his  lodging  (he  had  arrived  at  Venice  the  night  before),  a 
woman  who  stood  by  the  door  caught  his  arm. 

“ Monsieur^'  she  said,  in  French,  “ I have  been  watching  for 
your  return.  Do  you  understand  me  ? I will  brave  all,  risk 
all,  to  go  back  with  you  to  France — to  stand,  through  life  or 
in  death,  by  my  husband’s  side  ! ” 

“ Citoyenne^  I promised  your  husband  that,  if  such  your 
choice,  I would  hazard  my  own  safety  to  aid  it.  But  think 
again ! Your  husband  is  one  of  the  faction  which  Robes- 
pierre’s eyes  have  already  marked:  he  cannot  fly.  All  France  is 
become  a prison  to  the  ’‘suspect.^  You  do  but  endanger  your- 
self by  return.  Frankly,  citoyenne^  the  fate  you  would  share 
may  be  the  guillotine.  I speak  (as  you  know  by  his  letter)  as 
your  husband  bade  me.” 

“ Monsieur^  I will  return  with  you,”  said  the  woman,  with  a 
smile  upon  her  pale  face. 

“ And  yet  you  deserted  your  husband  in  the  fair  sunshine 
of  the  Revolution,  to  return  to  him  amid  its  storms  and  thun- 
der,” said  the  man,  in  a tone  half  of  wonder,  half  rebuke. 

“ Because  my  father’s  days  were  doomed  ; because  he  had 
no  safety  but  in  flight  to  a foreign  land  ; because  he  was  old 
and  penniless,  and  had  none  but  me  to  work  for  him  ; because 
my  husband  was  not  then  in  danger,  and  my  father  was  ! he  is 
dead — dead  ! My  husband  is  in  danger  now.  The  daugh- 
ter’s duties  are  no  more — the  wife’s  return  ! ” 

“ Be  it  so,  citoyenne;  on  the  third  night  I depart.  Before  then 
you  may  retract  your  choice.” 

“ Never ! ” 

A dark  smile  passed  over  the  man’s  face. 

“ O guillotine  ! ” he  said,  “ how  many  virtues  hast  thou 
brought  to  light ! Well  may  they  call  thee  ‘ A Holy  Mother.’ 
O gory  guillotine  ! ” 

He  passed  on,  muttering  to  himself,  hailed  a gondola,  and 
was  soon  amid  the  crowded  waters  of  the  Grand  Canal. 


288 


ZANONL 


CHAPTER  V. 

Ce  que  j ’ignore 

Est  plus  triste  peut-etre  et  plus  aflfreux  encore,  t 

La  Harpe,  Le  Comte  de  Warwick^  Act  5,  Sc.  1. 

I'HE  casement  stood  open,  and  Viola  was  seated  by  it 
Beneath  sparkled  the  broad  waters,  in  the  cold  but  cloudless 
sunlight ; and  to  that  fair  form,  that  half-averted  face,  turned 
the  eyes  of  many  a gallant  cavalier,  as  their  gondolas  glided 
by. 

But  at  last,  in  the  center  of  the  canal,  one  of  these  dark 
vessels  halted  motionless,  as  a man  fixed  his  gaze  from  its 
lattice  upon  that  stately  palace.  He  gave  the  word  to  the 
rowers — the  vessel  approached  the  marge.  The  stranger 
quitted  the  gondola  ; he  passed  up  the  broad  stairs  ; he  enter- 
ed the  palace.  Weep  on,  smile  no  more,  young  mother ! — 
the  last  page  is  turned  ? 

An  attendant  entered  the  room,  and  gave  Viola  a card  with 
these  words  in  English — “ Viola,  I must  see  you ! Clarence 
Glyndon.” 

Oh,  yes,  how  gladly  Viola  would  see  him ! — how  gladly 
speak  to  him  of  her  happiness — of  Zanoni ! — how  gladly  show 
to  him  her  child  ! Poor  Clarence  ! she  had  forgotten  him 
till  now,  as  she  had  all  the  fever  of  her  earlier  life — its  dreams, 
its  vanities,  its  poor  excitement,  the  lamps  of  the  gaudy  thea- 
ter, the  applause  of  the  noisy  crowd. 

He  entered.  She  started  to  behold  him,  so  changed  were 
his  gloomy  brow,  his  resolute,  care-worn  features,  from  the 
graceful  form  and  careless  countenance  of  the  artist-lover. 
His  dress,  though  not  mean,  was  rude,  neglected,  and  dis- 
ordered. A wild,  desperate,  half-savage  air  had  supplanted 
that  ingenuous  mien,  diffident  in  its  grace,  earnest  in  its  diffi- 
dence,— ^which  had  once  characterized  the  young  worshiper 
of  Art,  the  dreaming  aspirant  after  some  starrier  lore. 

“ Is  it  you  ? ” she  said,  at  last.  “ Poor  Clarence,  how 
changed ! ” 

“ Changed  ! ” he  said,  abruptly,  as  he  placed  himself  by  her 
side.  “ And  whom  am  I to  thank,  but  the  fiends — the  sorcer- 
ers— ^who  have  seized  upon  thy  existence,  as  upon  mine  ? 

t That  which  I know  not^is,  perhaps,  more  sad  and  fearful  still. 


ZANOm. 


289 


Viola,  hear  me.  A few  weeks  since,  the  news  reached  me 
that  you  were  in  Venice.  Under  other  pretences,  and  through 
innumerable  dangers,  I have  come  hither,  risking  liberty,  per' 
haps  life,  if  my  name  and  career  are  known  in  Venice,  to 
warn  and  save  you.  Changed  you  call  me  ! — changed  with- 
out ; but  what  is  that  to  the  ravages  within  ? Be  warned,  ba 
warned  in  time  ! 

The  voice  of  Glyndon,  sounding  hollow  and  sepulchral, 
alarmed  Viola  even  more  than  his  words.  Pale,  haggard, 
emaciated,  he  seemed  almost  as  one  risen  from  the  dead,  to 
appal  and  awe  her.  “ What,”  she  said,  at  last,  in  a faltering 
voicej  “ what  wild  words  do  you  utter ! Can  you ” 

“ Listen ! ” interrupted  Glyndon,  laying  his  hand  upon  hei 
arm,  and  its  touch  was  as  cold  as  death — “ listen  ! You  have 
heard  of  the  old  stories  of  men  who  have  leagued  themselves 
with  devils  for  the  attainment  of  preternatural  powers.  Those 
stories  are  not  fables.  Such  men  live.  Their  delight  is  to 
increase  the  unhallowed  circle  of  wretches  like  themselves. 
If  their  proselytes  fail  in  the  ordeal,  the  demon  seizes  them, 
even  in  this  life,  as  it  hath  seized  me  ! — if  they  succeed,  woe, 
yea,  a more  lasting  woe  ! There  is  another  life,  where  no 
spells  can  charm  the  evil  one,  or  allay  the  torture.  I have 
come  from  a scene  where  blood  flows  in  rivers — where  Death 
stands  by  the  side  of  the  bravest  and  the  highest,  and  the  one 
monarch  is  the  Guillotine  ; but  all  the  mortal  perils  with  which 
men  can  be  beset,  are  nothing  to  the  dreariness  of  a chamber 
where  the  Horror  that  passes  death  moves  and  stirs  ! ” 

It  was  then  that  Glyndon,  with  a cold  and  distinct  pre- 
cision, detailed,  as  he  had  done  to  Adela,  the  initiation 
through  which  he  had  gone.  He  described,  in  words  that 
froze  the  blood  of  his  listener,  the  appearance  of  that  form- 
less phantom,  with  the  eyes  that  seared  the  brain  and  con- 
gealed the  marrow  of  those  who  beheld.  Once  seen,  it  never 
was  to  be  exorcised.  It  came  at  its  own  will,  prompting 
black  thoughts — ^whispering  strange  temptations.  Only  in 
scenes  of  turbulent  excitement  was  it  absent ! Solitude — se- 
renity— the  struggling  desires  after  peace  and  virtue — these 
were  the  elements  it  loved  to  haunt ! Bewildered,  terror- 
stricken,  the  wild  account  confirmed  by  the  dim  impressions 
that  never,  in  the  depth  and  confidence  of  affection,  had 
been  closely  examined,  but  rather  banished  as  soon  as  felt — 
that  the  life  and  attributes  of  Zanoni  were  not  like  those  of 
mortals — impressions  which  her  own  love  had  made  her  hith- 
erto censure,  as  suspicions  that  wronged,  and  which,  thus 

19 


2QO 


ZANOm. 


mitigated,  had  perhaps  only  served  to  rivet  the  fascinated 
chains  in  which  he  bound  her  heart  and  senses,  but  which 
now,  as  Glyndon’s  awful  narrative  filled  her  with  contagious 
dread,  half-unbound  the  very  spells  they  had  woven  before — 
Viola  started  up  in  fear — not  for  herself;  and  clasped  her 
child  in  her  arms  ! 

“ Unhappiest  one ! ” cried  Glyndon,  shuddering,  “ hast  thou 
indeed  given  birth  to  a victim  thou  canst  not  save  ? Refuse 
it  sustenance — let  it  look  to  thee  in  vain  for  food ! In  the 
grave,  at  least,  there  are  repose  and  peace ! ” Then  there 
came  back  to  Viola’s  mind  the  remembrance  of  Zanoni’s 
night-long  watches  by  that  cradle,  and  the  fear  which  even 
then  had  crept  over  her  as  she  heard  his  murmured  half- 
chanted  words.  And  as  the  child  looked  at  her  with  its 
clear,  steadfast  eye,  in  the  strange  intelligence  of  that  look 
there  was  something  that  only  confirmed  her  awe.  So  there 
both  Mother  and  Forewarner  stood  in  silence — the  sun  smil- 
ing upon  them  through  the  casement,  and  dark  by  the  cradle, 
though  they  saw  it  not,  sat  the  motionless,  veiled  Thing ! 

But  by  degrees  better,  and  juster,  and  more  grateful  mem- 
ories of  the  past  returned  to  the  young  mother.  The  fea- 
tures of  the  infant,  as  she  gazed,  took  the  aspect  of  the  ab- 
sent father.  A voice  seemed  to  break  from  those  rosy  lips, 
and  say,  mournfully — “ I speak  to  thee  in  thy  child.  In  re- 
turn for  all  my  love  for  thee  and  thine,  dost  thou  distrust  me, 
at  the  first  sentence  of  a maniac  who  accuses  ” 

Her  breast  heaved — her  stature  rose — her  eyes  shone  with 
a serene  and  holy  light. 

“ Go,  poor  victim  of  thine  own  delusions,”  she  said  to 
Glyndon  ; “ I would  not  believe  mine  own  senses,  if  they  ac- 
cused ils  father ! And  what  knowest  thou  of  Zanoni } What 
relation  have  Mejnour  and  the  grisly  specters  he  invoked 
with  the  radiant  image  with  which  thou  wouldst  connect 
them ! ” 

“ Thou  wilt  learn  too  soon,”  replied  Glyndon,  gloomily. 
“ And  the  very  phantom  that  haunts  me,  whispers,  with  its 
bloodless  lips,  that  its  horrors  await  both  thine  and  thee  ! I 
take  not  thy  decision  yet ; before  I leave  Venice  we  shall 
meet  again.” 

He  said,  and  departed. 


ZANOm, 


291 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Quel  est  P6garement  ho  ton  Sme  se  livre  ? * 

La  Harpe,  Le  Comts  de  Warwick^  Act  4,  so.  4. 

Alas,  Z^noni ! the  Aspirer,  the  dark  bright  one  ! — didst 
thou  think  that  the  bond  between  the  survivor  of  ages  and 
the  daughter  of  a day  could  endure  ? Didst  thou  not  foresee 
that,  until  the  ordeal  was  past,  there  could  be  no  equality 
between  tny  wisdom  and  her  love  ? Art  thou  absent  now, 
seeking  amid  thy  solemn  secrets,  the  solemn  safeguards  for 
child  and  mother,  and  forgettest  thou  that  the  phantom  that 
served  thee  hath  power  over  its  own  gifts — over  the  lives  it 
taught  thee  to  rescue  from  the  grave  ? Dost  thou  not  know 
that  Fear  and  Distrust,  once  sown  in  the  heart  of  Love, 
spring  up  from  the  seed  into  a forest  that  excludes  the  stars  ? 
Dark  bright  one ! the  hateful  eyes  glare  beside  the  mother 
and  the  child ! 

All  that  day  Viola  was  distracted  by  a thousand  thoughts 
and  terrors,  which  fled  as  she  examined  them,  to  settle  back 
the  darklier.  She  remembered  that,  as  she  had  once  said  to 
Glyndon,  her  very  childhood  had  been  haunted  with  strange 
forebodings,  that  she  was  ordained  for  some  preternatural 
doom.  She  remembered  that,  as  she  had  told  him  this,  sitting 
by  the  seas  that  slumbered  in  the  arms  of  the  Bay  of  Naples, 
he,  too,  had  acknowledged  the  same  forebodings,  and  a 
mysterious  sympathy  had  appeared  to  unite  their  fates.  She 
remembered,  above  all,  that  comparing  their  entangled 
thoughts,  both  had  then  said  that  with  the  first  sight  of 
Zanoni  the  foreboding,  the  instinct,  had  spoken  to  their  hearts 
more  audibly  than  before,  whispering,  that  “with  him  was 
connected  the  secret  of  the  unconjectured  life.” 

And  now,  when  Glyndon  and  Viola  met  again,  the  haunting 
fears  of  childhood,  thus  referred  to,  woke  from  their  enchanted 
sleep.  With  Glyndon’s  terror  she  felt  a sympathy,  against 
which  her  reason  and  her  love  struggled  in  vain.  And  still, 
when  she  turned  her  looks  upon  her  child,  it  watched  her  with 
that  steady,  earnest  eye,  and  its  lips  moved  as  if  it  sought  to 
speak  to  her  • — but  no  sound  came.  The  infant  refused  to 
sleep.  Whenever  she  gazed  upon  its  face,  still  those  wakeful, 

* To  what  delusion  does  thy  soul  abandon  itself  ? 


. • L * ^ 


292  ZANONL 

watchful  eyes  ! — and  in  their  earnestness,  there  spoke  some- 
thing of  pain,  of  upbraiding,  of  accusation.  They  chilled  her 
as  she  looked.  Unable  to  endure,  of  herself,  this  sudden  and 
complete  revulsion  of  all  the  feelings  which  had  hitherto  made 
up  her  life,  she  formed  the  resolution  natural  to  her  land  and 
creed  : she  sent  for  the  priest  who  had  habitually  attended  her 
at  Venice,  and  to  him  she  confessed,  with  passionate  sobs  and 
intense  teiror,  the  doubts  that  had  broken  upon  her.  The 
good  father,  a worthy  and  pious  man,  but  with  little  educa- 
tion and  less  sense,  one  who  held  (as  many  of  the  lower 
Italians  do  to  this  day)  even  a poet  to  be  a sort  of  sorcerer, 
seemed  to  shut  the  gates  of  hope  upon  her  heart.  His  remon- 
strances were  urgent,  for  his  horror  was  unfeigned.  He  join- 
ed with  Glyndon  in  imploring  her  to  fly,  if  she  felt  the  small- 
est doubt  that  her  husband’s  pursuits  were  of  the  nature  which 
the  Roman  church  had  benevolently  burned  so  many  scholars 
for  adopting.  And  even  the  little  that  Viola  could  commu- 
nicate, seemed  to  the  ignorant  ascetic  irrefragable  proof  of  sor- 
cery and  witchcraft : he  had,  indeed,  previously  heard  some  of 
the  strange  rumors  which  followed  the  path  of  Zanoni,  and 
was  therefore  prepared  to  believe  the  worst ; the  worthy  Bar- 
tolomeo would  have  made  no  bones  of  sending  Watt  to  the 
stake,  had  he  heard  him  speak  of  the  steam-engine  ! But  Vi- 
ola, as  untutored  as  himself,  was  terrified  by  his  rough  and  ve- 
hement eloquence  ; terrified,  for  by  that  penetration  which 
Catholic  priests,  however  dull,  generally  acquire,  in  their 
vast  experience  of  the  human  heart  hourly  exposed  to  their 
probe,  Bartolomeo  spoke  less  of  danger  to  herself  than  to  her 
child.  “ Sorcerers,”  said  he,  “ have  ever  sought  the  most  to 
decoy  and  seduce  the  souls  of  the  young — nay,  the  infant ; ” 
and  therewith  he  entered  into  a long  catalogue  of  legendary 
fables  which  he  quoted  as  historical  facts.  All  at  which  an 
English  woman  would  have  smiled,  appalled  the  tender  but 
superstitious  Neapolitan  ; and  when  the  priest  left  her,  with 
solemn  rebukes  and  grave  accusations  of  a dereliction  of  hei 
duties  to  her  child,  if  she  hesitated  to  fly  with  it  from  an  abode 
the  darker  powers  and  unhallowed  arts,  Viola,  still 
the  image  of  Zanoni,  sunk  into  a passive  lethargy, 
which  held  her  very  reason  in  suspense. 

The  hours  passed ; night  came  on ; the  house  was  hushed ; 
and  Viola,  slowly  awakened  from  the  numbness  and  torpor 
which  had  usurped  her  faculties,  tossed  to  and  fro  on  her 
couch,  restless  and  perturbed.  The  stillness  became  intoler- 
able ; yet  more  intolerable  the  sound  that  alone  broke  it,  the 


polluted  by 
clinsrinsr  to 


ZANONI. 


293 


voice  of  the  clock,  kr^elling  moment  after  moment  to  its 
grave. 

The  Moments,  at  last,  seemed  themselves  to  find  voice — to 
gain  shape.  She  thought  she  beheld  them  springing,  wan 
and  fairylike,  from  the  womb  of  darkness ; and  ere  they  fell 
again,  extinguished,  into  that  womb,  their  grave,  their  low 
small  voices  murmured — “ Woman  ! we  report  to  eternity  all 
that  is  done  in  time ! What  shall  we  report  of  thee,  O 
guardian  of  a new-born  soul  ? ” She  became  sensible  that  her 
fancies  had  brought  a sort  of  partial  delirium,  that  she  was  in  a 
state  between  sleep  and  waking,  when  suddenly  one  thought 
became  more  predominant  that  the  rest.  The  chamber  which, 
in  that  and  every  house  they  had  inhabited,  even  that  in  the 
Greek  isles,  Zanoni  had  set  apart  to  a solitude  on  which  none 
might  intrude,  the  threshold  of  which  even  Viola’s  step  was 
forbid  to  cross,  and  never,  hitherto,  in  that  sweet  repose  of 
confidence  which  belongs  to  cemented  love,  had  she  even  felt 
the  curious  desire  to  disobey — now,  that  chamber  drew  her 
toward  it.  Perhaps,  there^  might  be  found  a somewhat  to 
solve  the  riddle,  to  dispel  or  confirm  the  doubt : that  thought 
grew  and  deepened  in  its  intenseness ; it  fastened  on  her  as 
with  a palpable  and  irresistible  grasp ; it  seemed  to  raise  her 
limbs  without  her  will. 

And  now,  through  the  chamber,  along  the  galleries  thou 
glidest,  O lovely  shape  ! sleep-walking,  yet  awake.  The  moon 
shines  on  thee  as  thou  glidest  by,  casement  after  casement, 
white-robed  and  wandering  spirit ! — thine  arms  crossed  upon 
thy  bosom,  thine  eyes  fixed  and  open,  with  a calm,  unfearing 
awe.  Mother ! it  is  thy  child  that  leads  thee  on.  The  fairy 
moments  go  before  thee.  Thou  hearest  still  the  clock-knell 
tolling  them  to  their  graves  behind.  On,  gliding  on,  thou 
hast  gained  the  door ; no  lock  bars  thee,  no  magic  spell  drives 
thee  back.  Daughter  of  the  dust,  thou  standest  alone  with 
Night  in  the  chamber  where,  pale  and  numberless,  the  hosts 
of  space  have  gathered  round  the  seer ! 


2^ 


ZANONL 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Des  Erdenlebens 

Schweres  Traumbild  sinkt,  und  sinkt,  und  sinkt  * 

Das  Bdeal  und  das  Lebens. 

She  stood  within  the  chamber,  and  gazed  around  her ; n® 
signs  by  whieh  an  Inquisitor  of  old  could  have  detected  the 
Scholar  of  the  Black  Art  were  visible.  No  crucibles  and 
caldrons,  no  brass-bound  volumes  and  ciphered  girdles,  no 
skulls  and  cross-bones.  Quietly  streamed  the  broad  moon- 
light through  the  desolate  chamber  with  its  bare  white  walls. 
A few  bunches  of  withered  herbs,  a few  antique  vessels  of 
bronze,  placed  carelessly  an  a wooden  form,  were  all  which 
that  curious  gaze  could  identify  with  the  pursuits  of  the 
absent  owner.  The  magic,  if  it  existed,  dwelt  in  the  artificer, 
and  the  materials,  to  other  hands,  were  but  herbs  and  bronze. 
So  is  it  ever  with  thy  works  and  wonders,  O Genius — Seeker 
of  the  Stars  ! Words  themselves  are  the  common  property 
of  all  men  ; yet,  from  words  themselves.  Thou,  Architect  of 
Immortalities,  pilest  up  temples  that  shall  outlive  the  Pyra- 
mids, and  the  very  leaf  of  the  Papyrus  becomes  a Shinar, 
stately  with  towers,  round  which  the  Deluge  of  Ages  shall 
roar  in  vain  ! 

But  in  that  solitude  has  the  Presence  that  there  had  invoked 
its  wonders  left  no  enchantment  of  its  own  ? It  seemed  so  •, 
for  as  Viola  stood  in  the  chamber,  she  became  sensible  that 
some  mysterious  change  was  at  work  within  herself.  Her 
blood  coursed  rapidly,  and  with  a sensation  of  delight,  through 
her  veins — she  felt  as  if  chains  were  falling  from  her  limbs, 
as  if  cloud  after  cloud  was  rolling  from  her  gaze.  All  the 
confused  thoughts  which  had  moved  through  her  trance,  settled 
and  cenetred  themselves  in  one  intense  desire  to  see  the  Absent 
One — to  be  with  him.  The  monads  that  make  up  space  and 
air  seemed  charged  with  a spiritual  attraction — to  become  a 
medium  through  which  her  spirit  could  pass  from  its  clay,  and 
confer  with  the  spirit  to  which  the  unutterable  desire  com- 
pelled it.  A faintness  seized  her  ; she  tottered  to  the  seat  on 
which  the  vessels  and  herbs  were  placed,  and,  as  she  bent 
down,  she  saw  in  one  of  the  vessels  a small  vase  of  crystal. 

* The  Dream  Shape  of  tiae  heary  earthly  life  sinks,  and  sinks,  and  sinka. 


ZANONI. 


29s 


By  a mechanical  and  involuntary  impulse,  her  hand  seized  the 
vase  ; she  opened  it,  and  the  volatile  essence  it  contained 
sparkled  up,  and  spread  through  the  room  a powerful  and 
delicious  fragrance.  She  inhaled  the  odor,  she  laved  her 
temples  with  the  liquid,  and  suddenly  her  life  seemed  to 
spring  up  from  the  previous  faintness — to  spring,  to  soar,  to 
float,  to  dilate  upon  the  wings  of  a bird. 

The  room  vanished  from  her  eyes.  Away — away,  over 

lands,  and  seas,  and  space,  on  the  rushing  desires  flies  the 
disprisoned  mind  ! 

Upon  a stratum,  not  of  this  world,  stood  the  world-born 
shapes  of  the  sons  of  Science  ; upon  an  embryo  world — upon 
a crude,  wan,  attenuated  mass  of  matter,  one  of  the  Nebulae, 
which  the  suns  of  the  myriad  systems  throw  off  as  they  roll 
round  the  Creator’s  throne,*  to  become  themselves  new 
worlds  of  symmetry  and  glory — planets  and  suns,  that  for- 
ever and  forever  shall  in  their  turn  multiply  their  shining 
race,  and  be  the  father  of  suns  and  planets  yet  to  come. 

There,  in  that  enormous  solitude  of  an  infant  world,  which 
thousands  and  thousands  of  years  can  alone  ripen  into  form, 
the  spirit  of  Viola  beheld  the  shape  of  Zanoni,  or  rather  the 
likeness,  the  simulacrum,  the  lemur  of  his  shape,  not  its 
human  and  corporeal  substance — as  if,  like  hers,  the 
Intelligence  was  parted  from  the  Clay  : — and  as  the  sun, 
while  it  revolves  and  glows,  had  cast  off  into  remotest  space 
that  Nebular  image  of  itself,  so  the  thing  of  earth,  in  the 
action  of  its  more  luminous  and  enduring  being,  had  thrown 
its  likeness  into  that  new-born  stranger  of  the  heavens. 
There  stood  the  phantom — a phantom  Mejnour,  by  its  side. 
In  the  gigantic  chaos  around  raved  and  struggled  the  kind- 
ling elements — water  and  fire,  darkness  and  light,  at  war — 
vapor  and  cloud  hardening  into  mountains,  and  the  Breath  of 
Life  moving  like  a steadfast  splendor  over  all ! 

* “Astronomy  instructs  us,  that  in  the  original  condition  of  the  solar  system, 
the  sun  was  the  nucleus  of  a nebulosity  or  luminous  mass,  which  revolved  on  its 
axis,  and  extended  far  beyond  the  orbits  of  all  the  planets  ; the  planets  as  yet  having 
no  existence.  Its  temperature  gradually  diminished,  and  becoming  contracted  by 
cooling,  the  rotation  increased  in  rapidity,  and  zones  of  nebulosity  were  successively 
thrown  off,  in  consequence  of  the  centrifugal  force  overpowering  the  central  attrac- 
tion. The  condensation  of  these  separate  masses  constituted  the  planets  and 
satellites.  But  this  view  of  the  conversion  of  gaseous  matter  into  planetary  bodies 
is  not  limited  to  our  own  system;  it  extends  to  the  formation  of  the  innumerable 
suns  and  worlds  which  are  distributed  throughout  the  universe.  The  sublime 
discoveries  of  modern  astronomers  have  shown  that  every  part  of  the  realms  of  space 
abounds  in  large  expansions  of  attenuated  matter  termed  nebulce^  which  are  irregu- 
larly reflective  of  light,  of  various  figures,  and  in  different  states  of  condensation . 
from  that  of  a diffused  luminous  mass  to  suns  and  planets  like  our  own.” — From 
Mantell’s  eloquent  and  delightful  work,  entitled,  “ The  Wonders  of  Geology,”  v»l 
i.  p.  22. 


296 


ZANONL 


As  the  dreamer  looked,  and  shivered,  she  beheld  that 
even  there  the  two  phantoms  of  humanity  were  not  alone. 
Dim  monster-forms  that  that  disordered  chaos  alone  could 
engender,  the  first  reptile  Colossal  race  that  writhe  and 
crawl  through  the  earliest  stratum  of  a world  laboring  into 
life,  coiled  in  the  oozing  matter  or  hovered  through  the  me- 
teorous  vapors.  But  these  the  two  seekers  seemed  not  to 
heed ; their  gaze  was  fixed  intent  upon  an  object  in  the 
farthest  space.  With  the  eyes  of  the  spirit,  Viola  followed 
theirs  ; with  a terror  far  greater  than  the  chaos  and  its  hideous 
inhabitants  produced,  she  beheld  a shadowy  likeness  of  the 
very  room  in  which  her  form  yet  dwelt,  its  white  walls,  the 
moonshine  sleeping  on  its  floor,  its  open  casement,  with  the 
quiet  roofs  and  domes  of  Venice  looming  over  the  sea  that 
sighed  below  ; — and  in  that  room  the  ghost-like  image  of  her- 
self ! This  double  phantom — here  herself  a phantom — gazing 
there  upon  a phantom-self,  had  in  it  a horror  which  no  words 
can  tell,  no  length  of  life  forego. 

But  presently  she  saw  this  image  of  herself  rise  slowly,  leave 
the  room  with  its  noiseless  feet — it  passes  the  corridor — it 
kneels  by  a cradle ! Heaven  of  Heavens ! she  beholds  her 
child  ! — still  with  its  wondrous  childlike  beauty  and  its  silent 
wakeful  eyes.  But  beside  that  cradle  there  sits,  cowering,  a 
mantled  shadowy  form — the  more  fearful  and  ghastly,  from  its 
indistinct  and  unsubstantial  gloom.  The  walls  of  that 
chamber  seem  to  open  as  the  scene  of  a theater.  A grim 
dungeon — streets  through  which  pour  shadowy  crowds 
— wrath  and  hatred,  and  the  aspect  of  daemons  in  their 
ghastly  visages — a place  of  death — a murderous  instrument — 
a shambie-house  of  human  flesh — herself — her  child — all,  all, 
rapid  phantasmagoria,  chased  each  other.  Suddenly  the  pham 
tom-Zanoni  turned,  it  seemed  to  perceive  herself — her  second 
self.  It  sprang  toward  her  ; her  spirit  could  bear  no  more. 
She  shrieked,  she  woke.  She  found  that  in  truth  she  had 
left  that  dismal  chamber ; the  cradle  was  before  her-— the 
child  ! all — all  as  that  trance  had  seen  it,  and,  vanishing  into 
air,  even  that  dark  formless  Thing ! 

“ My  child  ! my  child  I thy  mother  shall  save  thee  yet ! ” 


ZAKOm. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Qui  ?Toi  1 m’abandonner,  oil  vas-tu  ? non ! demeure, 

Demeure  1 ” f 

La  Harp,  Le  Comte  de  Warwick,  Act  3,  sc.  5. 

LETTER  FROM  VIOLA  TO  ZANONI. 

“ It  has  come  to  this  ! — I am  the  first  to  part ! I,  the  un- 
faithful one,  bid  thee  farewell  forever.  When  thine  eyes  fall 
upon  this  writing,  thou  wilt  know  me  as  one  of  the  dead.  For 
thou  that  wert,  and  still  art  my  life — I am  lost  to  thee  ! O 
lover ! O husband ! O still  worshiped  and  adored  ! if  thou 
hast  ever  loved  me,  if  thou  canst  still  pity,  seek  not  to  discover 
the  steps  that  fly  thee.  If  thy  charms  can  detect  and  track 
me,  spare  me — spare  our  child  ! Zanoni,  I will  rear  it  to  love 
thee,  to  call  thee  father  ! Zanoni,  its  young  lips  shall  pray  for 
thee  ! Ah,  spare  thy  child,  for  infants  are  the  saints  of  earth, 
and  their  mediation  may  be  heard  on  high  ! Shall  I tell  thee 
why  I part  ? No  ; thou,  the  wisely-terrible,  canst  divine  what 
the  hand  trembles  to  record  ; and  while  I shudder  at  thy  power 
— while  it  is  thy  power  I fly  (our  child  upon  my  bosom), — it 
comforts  me  still  to  think  that  thy  power  can  read  the  heart ! 
Thou  knowest  that  it  is  the  faithful  mother  that  writes  to  thee, 
it  is  not  the  faithless  wife  ! Is  there  sin  in  thy  knowledge, 
Zanoni  ? Sin  must  have  sorrow  : and  it  were  sweet — oh,  how 
sweet,  to  be  thy  comforter.  But  the  child,  the  infant,  the  soul 
that  looks  to  mine  for  its  shield  ! Magician,  I wrest  from  thee 
that  soul ! Pardon,  pardon,  if  my  words  wrong  thee.  See,  I 
fall  on  my  knees  to  write  the  rest  ! 

“ Why  did  I never  recoil  before  from  thy  mysterious  lore  ? 
— why  did  the  very  strangeness  of  thine  unearthly  life  only 
fascinate  me  with  a delightful  fear  ? Because,  if  thou  wert 
sorcerer  or  angel-daemon,  there  was  no  peril  to  other  but  my- 
self : and  none  to  me,  for  my  love  was  my  heavenliest  part ; 
and  my  ignorance  in  all  things,  except  the  art  to  love  thee,  re- 
pelled every  thought  that  was  not  bright  and  glorious  as  thine 
image  to  my  eyes.  But  now  there  is  another  ! Look  ! why 
does  it  watch  me  thus — why  that  never-sleeping,  earnest,  re- 
buking gaze  ? Have  thy  spells  encompassed  it  already  ? Hast 
thou  marked  it,  cruel  one,  for  the  terrors  of  thy  unutterable 

t Who  ? Tkeu  abandon  me  1 — Where  goest  thou  ? No,  stay,  stay'. 


ZANONI. 


29S 

art  ? Do  not  madden  me — do  not  madden  me  ! — unbind  the 
spell ! 

“ Hark  ! the  oars  without ! They  come — they  come  to  bear 
me  from  thee  ! I look  round,  and  methinks  that  I see  thee 
everywhere.  Thou  speakest  to  me  from  every  shadow,  from 
every  star.  There,  by  the  casement,  thy  lips  last  pressed 
mine — there,  there  by  that  threshold  didst  thou  turn  again  and 
thy  smile  seemed  so  trustingly  to  confide  in  me  ! Zanoni-^ 
Husband — I will  stay  ! I cannot  part  from  thee  ! No,  no  ! 

I will  go  to  the  room  where  thy  dear  voice,  with  its  gentle 
music,  assuaged  the  pangs  of  travail ! — where,  heard  through 
the  thrilling  darkness,  it  first  whispered  to  my  ear  ‘ Viola,  thou 
art  a mother ! ’ A mother  ! — yes,  I rise  from  my  knees — I 
am  a mother  ! They  come  ! I am  firm  ; farewell ! ” 

Yes ; thus  suddenly,  thus  cruelly,  whether  in  the  delirium 
of  blind  and  unreasoning  superstition,  or  in  the  resolve  of 
that  conviction  which  springs  from  duty,  the  being  for  whom 
he  had  resigned  so  much  of  empire  and  of  glory  forsook 
Zanoni.  This  desertion,  never  foreseen,  never  anticipated, 
was  yet  but  the  constant  fate  that  attends  those  who  would 
place  Mind  beyond  the  earth,  and  yet  treasure  the  Heart 
within  it.  Ignorance  everlastingly  shall  recoil  from  knowl- 
edge. But  never  yet,  from  nobler  and  purer  motives  of 
self-sacrifice,  did  human  love  link  itself  to  another,  than  did 
the  forsaking  wife  now  abandon  the  absent.  For  rightly  had 
she  said,  that  it  was  not  the  faithless  wife,  it  was  the  faithful 
mother  that  fled  from  all  in  which  her  earthly  happiness  was 
centered. 

As  long  as  the  passion  and  fervor  that  impelled  the  act 
animated  her  with  false  fever,  she  clasped  her  infant  to  her 
breast,  and  was  consoled — resigned.  But  what  bitter  doubt 
of  her  own  conduct,  what  icy  pang  of  remorse  shot  through 
her  heart,  when,  as  they  rested  for  a few  hours  on  the  road 
to  Leghorn,  she  heard  the  woman  who  accompanied  herself 
and  Glyndon  pray  for  safety  to  reach  her  husband’s  side,  and 
strength  to  share  the  perils  that  would  meet  her  there  ! 
Terrible  contrast  to  her  own  desertion  ! She  shrunk  into  the 
darkness  of  her  own  heart, — and  then  no  voice  from  within 
consoled  her. 


[ 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Zukunft  hast  du  mir  gegeben, 

Doch  du  nehmst  den  Augenblick.* 

Kassandra. 

••  Mejnour,  behold  thy  work  ! Out,  out  upon  our  little 
Vanities  of  wisdom  ! — out  upon  our  ages  of  lore  and  life  ! 
To  save  her  from  Peril,  I left  her  presence,  and  the  Peril  has 
seijied  her  in  its  grasp  ! ” 

“ Chide  not  thy  wisdom,  but  thy  passions  ! Abandon  thine 
idle  hope  of  the  love  of  woman.  See,  for  those  who  would 
unite  the  lofty  with  the  lowly,  the  inevitable  curse  ; thy  very 
nature  uncomprehended — thy  sacrifices  unguessed.  The 
lowly  one  views  but  in  the  lofty  a necromancer  or  a fiend. 
Titan,  canst  thou  weep  ? ” 

I know  it  now — I see  it  all ! — It  was  her  spirit  that  stood 
beside  our  own,  and  escaped  my  airy  clasp ! Oh,  strong 
desire  of  motherhood  and  nature  ! unveiling  all  our  secrets, 
piercing  space  and  traversing  worlds  ! — Mejnour,  what  awful 
learning  lies  hid  in  the  ignorance  of  the  heart  that  loves  ! ” 

“ The  heart,”  answered  the  Mystic,  coldly ; “ ay,  for  five 
thousand  years  I have  ransacked  the  mysteries  of  creation ; 
but  I have  not  yet  discovered  all  the  wonders  in  the  heart  of 
the  simplest  boor  ! ” 

“ Yet  our  solemn  rites  deceived  us  not ; the  prophet-shad- 
ows, dark  with  terror  and  red  with  blood,  still  foretold  that, 
even  in  the  dungeon,  and  before  the  deathsman,  I — I had  the 
power  to  save  them  both  ! ” 

“But  at  some  unconjectured  and  most  fatal  sacrifice  to 
thyself.”  ' 

“ To  myself ! Icy  sage,  there  is  no  self  in  love  I I go. 
Nay,  alone  : I want  thee  not.  I want  now  no  other  guide 
but  the  human  instincts  of  affection.  No  cave  so  dark — no 
solitude  so  vast,  as  to  conceal  her.  Though  mine  art  fail  me 
— though  the  stars  heed  me  not — though  space,  with  its  shin- 
ing myriads,  is  again  to  me  but  the  azure  void, — I return  but 
to  love,  and  youth,  and  hope  I when  have  they  ever  failed  to 
triumph  and  to  save  1 ” 

♦ Futurity  hast  thou  given  to  me — yet  thou  takest  from  me  tfie  MomiMt. 


zjLivojn, 


m 


BOOK  VII. 

THE  REIGN  OF  TERROlU 


CHAPTER  L 

Q«i  suis-je,  mol  qu’on  accuse?  Un  esclave  de  la  Libert6,  un  martyr  vivar4 
de  la  Republique.^ — DiscouRS  de  Robespierre,  8 Thermidor, 

It  roars — the  River  of  Hell,  whose  first  outbreak  was 
chanted  as  the  gush  of  a channel  to  Elysium.  How  burst 
into  blossoming  hopes  fair  hearts  that  had  nourished  them- 
selves on  the  diamond  dews  of  the  rosy  dawn,  when  Liberty 
came  from  the  dark  ocean,  and  the  arms  of  decrepit  Thraldom 
— Aurora  from  the  bed  of  Tithon  ! Hopes  ! ye  have  ripened 
into  fruit,  and  the  fruit  is  gore  and  ashes  ! Beautiful  Roland, 
eloquent  Vergniaud,  visionary  Condorcet,  high-hearted  Male- 
sherbes  ! — wits,  philosophers,  statesmen,  patriots, — dream- 
ers ! behold  the  millennium  for  which  ye  dared  and  labored  ! 

I invoke  the  ghosts ! Saturn  hath  devoured  his  children,! 
and  lives  alone — in  his  true  name  of  Moloch ! 

It  is  iie  Reign  of  Terror,  with  Robespierre  the  king.  The 
struggles  between  the  boa  and  the  lion  are  past ; the  boa  has 
consumed  the  lion,  and  is  heavy  with  the  gorge  ; — Danton 
has  fallen,  and  Camille  Desmoulins.  Danton  had  said  before 
his  death,  “ The  poltroon  Robespierre — I alone  could  have 
saved  him.”  From  that  hour,  indeed,  the  blood  of  the  dead 
giant  clouded  the  craft  of  “ Maximilien  the  Incorruptible,” 
as  at  last,  amid  the  din  of  the  roused  Convention,  it  choked 

* Who  am  I,  / whom  they  accuse  ? A slave  of  Liberty— a living-  martyr  for  tha 
Republic. 

La  Revolution  est  comme  Saturne,  elle  devorera  tous  ses  eafans. 

— Vergnmuo- 


ZANOM 


his  voice.*  If,  after  that  last  sacrifice,  essential,  perhaps,  to  his 
safety,  Robespierre  had  proclaimed  the  close  of  the  Reign  of 
Terror,  and  acted  upon  the  mercy  which  Danton  had  begun 
to  preach,  he  might  have  lived  and  died  a monarch.  But  the 
prisons  continued  to  reek — the  glaive  to  fall ; and  Robes- 
pierre perceived  not  that  his  mobs  were  glutted  to  satiety 
with  death,  and  the  strongest  excitement  a chief  could  give 
would  be  a return  from  devils  into  men. 

We  are  transported  to  a room  in  the  house  of  Citizen 
Dupleix,  the  menuisier,  in  the  month  of  July,  1794  ; or,  in  the 
calendar  of  the  Revolutionists,  it  was  the  Thermidor  of  the 
Second  Year  of  the  Republic,  One  and  Indivisible  1 Though 
the  room  was  small,  it  was  furnished  and  decorated  with  a 
minute  and  careful  effort  at  elegance  and  refinement.  It 
seemed,  indeed,  the  desire  of  the  owner  to  avoid  at  once  what 
was  mean  and  rude,  and  what  was  luxurious  and  voluptuous. 
It  was  a trim,  orderly,  precise  grace  that  shaped  the  classic 
chairs,  arranged  the  ample  draperies,  sunk  the  frameless  mir- 
rors into  the  wall,  placed  bust  and  bronze  on  their  pedestals, 
and  filled  up  the  niches  here  and  there  with  well-bound  books 
filled  regularly  in  their  appointed  ranks.  An  observer  would 
have  said,  “ This  man  wishes  to  imply  to  you — I am  not  rich ; 
I am  not  ostentatious  ; I am  not  luxurious ; I am  no  indo- 
lent Sybarite,  with  couches  of  down,  and  pictures  that  pro- 
voke the  sense  ; I am  no  haughty  noble,  with  spacious  halls, 
and  galleries  that  awe  the  echo.  But  so  much  the  greater  is 
my  merit  if  I disdain  these  excesses  of  the  ease  or  the  pride, 
since  I love  the  elegant,  and  have  a taste  ! Others  may  be 
simple  and  honest,  from  the  very  coarseness  of  their  habits  ; 
if  I,  with  so  much  refinement  and  delicacy,  am  simple  and 
honest, — reflect  and  admire  me  ! ” 

On  the  walls  of  this  chamber  hung  many  portraits,  most  of 
them  represented  but  one  face  ; on  the  formal  pedestals  were 
grouped  many  busts  ; most  of  them  sculptured  but  one  head. 
In  that  small  chamber  Egotism  sat  supreme,  and  made  the 
Arts  its  looking-glasses.  Erect  in  a chair,  before  a large  table 
spread  with  letters,  sat  the  original  of  bust  and  canvas,  the 
owner  of  the  apartment.  He  was  alone,  yet  he  sat  erect,  for- 
mal, stiff,  precise,  as  if  in  his  very  home  he  was  not  at  ease. 
His  dress  was  in  harmony  with  his  posture  and  his  chamber, 

* Le  sang  de  Danton  t’etouffe  ! ” (the  blood  of  Danton  chokes  thee !)  said  Gaf« 
nier  de  I’Aube,  when,  on  the  fatal  9th  of  Thermidor,  Robespierre  gasped  feeMj 
forth— “ Pour  la  derniere  fois  President  des  Assassins,  je  te  demandeia  parole." 
(Foi*  the  last  time.  President  of  Assassins,  I demand  to  sp^k.) 


ZANONL 


m 

it  affected  a neatness  of  its  own — foreign  both  to  the  sumptu* 
ous  fashions  of  the  deposed  nobles,  and  the  filthy  ruggedness 
of  the  sans  culottes.  Frizzled  and  coiffe,  not  a hair  was  out  of 
order,  not  a speck  lodged  on  the  sleek  surface  of  the  blue 
coat,  not  a wrinkle  crumpled  the  snowy  vest,  with  its  under- 
relief of  delicate  pink.  At  the  first  glance,  you  might  have 
seen  in  that  face  nothing  but  the  ill-favored  features  of  a 
sickly  countenance.  At  a second  glance,  you  would  have 
perceived  that  it  had  a power — a character  of  its  own.  The 
forehead,  though  low  and  compressed,  was  not  without  that 
appearance  of  thought  and  intelligence  which,  it  may  be 
observed,  that  breadth  between  the  eyebrows  almost  invari- 
ably gives  ; the  lips  were  firm  and  tightly  drawn  together, 
yet  ever  and  anon  they  trembled,  and  writhed  restlessly. 
The  eyes,  sullen  and  gloomy,  were  yet  piercing,  and  full  of  a 
concentrated  vigor,  that  did  not  seem  supported  by  the  thin, 
feeble  frame,  or  the  green  lividness  of  the  hues,  which  told  of 
anxiety  and  disease. 

Such  was  Maximilien  Robespierre  ; such  the  chamber  over 
the  menuiseer's  shop  whence  issued  the  edicts  that  launched 
armies  on  their  career  of  glory,  and  ordained  an  artificial 
conduit  to  carry  off  the  blood  that  deluged  the  metropolis  of 
the  most  martial  people  on  the  globe  ! Such  was  the  man 
who  had  resigned  a judicial  appointment  (the  early  object  of 
his  ambition),  rather  than  violate  his  philanthropical  princi- 
ples, by  subscribing  to  the  death  of  a single  fellow-creature  ! 
— such  was  the  virgin  enemy  to  capital  punishments,  and 
such,  Butcher-Dictator  now,  was  the  man  whose  pure  and 
rigid  manners,  whose  incorruptible  honesty,  whose  hatred  of 
the  excesses  that  tempt  to  love  and  wine,  would — had  he 
died  five  years  earlier — have  left  him  the  model  for  prudent 
fathers  and  careful  citizens  to  place  before  their  sons.  Such 
was  the  man  who  seemed  to  have  no  vice,  till  circumstance, 
that  hot-bed,  brought  forth  the  two  which,  in  ordinary  times, 
lie  ever  the  deepest  and  most  latent  in  a man’s  heart — Cow- 
ardice and  Envy.  To  one  of  these  sources  is  to  be  traced 
every  murder  that  master-fiend  committed.  His  cowardice 
was  of  a peculiar  and  strange  sort ; for  it  was  accompanied 
with  the  most  unscrupulous  and  determined  will — a will  that 
Napoleon  reverenced, — a will  of  iron,  and  yet  nerves  of  aspen. 
Mentally,  he  was  a hero  ; physically,  a dastard.  When  the 
veriest  shadow  of  danger  threatened  his  person,  the  frame 
cowered,  but  the  will  swept  the  danger  to  the  slaughter-house. 
So  there  he  sat,  bolt  upright — his  small,  lean  fingers  clenched 


3^4 


zAi\rom. 


convulsively — his  sullen  eyes  straining  into  space,  their  whites 
yellowed  with  streaks  of  corrupt  blood,  his  ears  literally  mov- 
ing to  and  fro,  like  the  ignoble  animal’s,  to  catch  every  sound 
— a Dionysius  in  his  cave, — but  his  posture  decorous  and 
collected,  and  every  formal  hair  in  its  frizzled  place. 

“ Yes,  yes,”  he  said,  in  a muttered  tone,  “ I hear  them ; 
my  good  Jacobins  are  at  their  post  on  the  stairs.  Pity  they 
swear  so ! I have  a law  against  oaths — the  manners  of  the 
poor  and  virtuous  people  must  be  reformed.  When  all  is  safe, 
an  example  or  two  among  those  good  Jacobins  would  make 
effect.  Faithful  fellows,  how  they  love  me  ! Hum ! — what 
oath  was  that ! — they  need  not  swear  so  loud — upon  the 
very  staircase,  too  1 It  detracts  from  my  reputation.  Ha ! 
steps  1 ” 

The  soliloquist  glanced  at  the  opposite  mirror,  and  took 
up  a volume  ; he  seemed  absorbed  in  its  contents,  as  a tall 
fellow,  a bludgeon  in  his  hand,  a girdle,  adorned  with  pistols, 
round  his  waist,  opened  the  door,  and  announced  two  visitors. 
The  one  was  a young  man,  said  to  resemble.  Robespierre  in 
person  ; but  of  a far  more  decided  and  resolute  expression  of 
countenance.  He  entered  first,  and  looking  over  the  volume 
in  Robespierre’s  hand,  for  the  latter  seemed  still  intent  on 
his  lecture,  exclaimed — 

“ What ! Rousseau’s  Heloise  ? A love-tale  ! ” 

“ Dear  Payan,  it  is  not  the  love — it  is  the  philosophy  that 
charms  me.  What  noble  sentiments  ! — what  ardor  of  virtue  ! 
If  Jean  Jacques  had  but  lived  to  see  this  day ! ” 

While  the  Dictator  thus  commented  on  his  favorite  author, 
whom  in  his  orations  he  labored  hard  to  imitate,  the  second 
visitor  was  wheeled  into  the  room  in  a chair.  This  man  was 
also  in  what,  to  most,  is  the  prime  of  life — viz.,  about  thirty 
eight ; but  he  was  literally  dead  in  the  lower  limbs : crippled, 
paralytic,  distorted,  he  was  yet,  as  the  time  soon  came  to  tell 
him — a Hercules  in  Crime  ! But  the  sweetest  of  human  smiles 
dwelt  upon  his  lips,  a beauty  almost  angelic  characterized 
his  features  ;*  an  inexpressible  aspect  of  kindness,  and  the 
resignation  of  suffering  but  cheerful  benignity,  stole  into  the 
hearts  of  those  who  for  the  first  time  beheld  him.  With  the 

* “ Figure  d’  Ange,’'  says  one  of  his  contemporaries,  in  describing  Couthon.  The 
address,  drawn  up  most  probably  by  Payan  (Thermidor  9),  after  the  arrest  oi 
Robespierre,  thus  mentions  his  crippled  collt^ague — “ Couthon,  ce  citoyen  vertueux, 
gui  n'a  que  le  cceur  et  la  tete  de  vivans,  mais  qui  les  a brulantsde  patriotisme.”  (a) 

(a)  Couthon,  that  virtuous  citizen,  who  has  but  the  head  and  heart  of  the  livingi, 
yet  possesses  these  all  on  flame  with  patriotism. 


ZANONI. 


30s 


most  caressing,  silver,  flute-like  voice,  Citizen  Couthon 
saluted  the  admirer  of  Jean  Jacques. 

“ Nay — do  not  say  it  is  not  the  love  that  attracts  thee  ; it  is 
the  love  ! but  not  the  gross,  sensual  attachment  of  man  for 
woman.  No ! the  sublime  affection  for  the  whole  human 
race,  and,  indeed,  for  all  that  lives  ! ” 

And  Citizen  Couthon,  bending  down,  fondled  the  little 
spaniel  that  he  invariably  carried  in  his  bosom,  even  to  the 
Convention,  as  a vent  for  the  exuberant  sensibilities  which 
overflowed  his  affectionate  heart.* 

“ Yes,  for  all  that  lives,”  repeated  Robespierre,  tenderly. 
Good  Couthon — poor  Couthon  ! Ah,  the  malice  of  men  ! 
flow  we  are  misrepresented  ! To  be  calmuniated  as  the 
executioners  of  our  colleagues  ! Ah,  it  is  that  which  pierces 
the  heart ! To  be  an  object  of  terror  to  the  enemies  of  our 
country — that  is  noble ; but  to  be  an  object  of  terror  to  the 
good,  the  patriotic,  to  those  one  loves  and  reveres — that  is 
the  most  terrible  of  human  tortures ; at  least,  to  a susceptible 
and  honest  heart ! ”t 

“ How  I love  to  hear  him ! ” ejaculated  Couthon. 

“ Hem  ! ” said  Payan,  with  some  impatience.  “ But  now 
to  business ! ” 

“ Ah,  to  business ! ” said  Robespierre,  with  a sinister 
glance  from  his  blood-shot  eyes. 

“ The  time  has  come,”  said  Payan,  “ when  the  safety  of  the 
Republic  demands  a complete  concentration  of  its  power. 
These  brawlers  of  the  Comite  du  Salut  Public  can  only 
destroy  ; they  cannot  construct.  They  hated  you,  Maximilien, 
from  the  moment  you  attempted  to  replace  anarchy  by  insti- 
tutions. How  they  mock  at  the  festival  which  proclaimed 
the  acknowledgment  of  a Supreme  Being : they  would  have 
no  ruler,  even  in  heaven!  Your  clear  and  vigorous  intellect 
saw  that,  having  wrecked  an  old  world,  it  became  necessary 

* This  tenderness  for  some  pet  animal  was  by  no  means  peculiar  to  Couthon  ; it 
seems  rather  a common  fashion  with  the  gentle  butchers  of  the  Revolution.  M, 
George  Duval  informs  us  (“  Souvenirs  de  la  Terreur;”  vol.  iii.  p.  183),  that  Chau- 
mettehad  an  aviary,  to  which  he  devoted  his  harmless  leisure  ; the  murderous  Four- 
nier carried,  on  his  shoulders,  a pretty  little  squirrel,  attached  by  a silver  chain  ; Pants 
bestowed  the  superfluity  of  his  alfections  upon  two  gold  pheasants ; and  Marat, 
who  would  not  abate  one  of  the  three  hundred  thousand  heads  he  demanded, 
rtared  doves!  Apropos  of  the  spaniel  of  Couthon,  Duval  gives  us  an  amusing 
anecdote  of  Sergent,  not  one  of  the  least  relentless  agents  of  the  massacre  01 
September.  A lady  came  to  implore  his  protection  for  one  of  her  relations  confined 
in  the  Abbaye.  He  scarcely  deigned  to  speak  to  her.  As  she  retired  in  despair,  she 
trod  by  an  accident  on  the  paw  of  his  favorite  spaniel.  Sergent,  turning  round, 
enraged  and  furious,  exclaimed — Madam,  have  you  no  humanity ! ” 
t Not  to  fatigue  the  reader  with  annotations,  I may  here  observe  that  nearly 
evaty  sentiment  ascribed  in  the  text  to  Robespierre,  is  to  be  found  expressed  in  hi* 
various  discourses. 


20 


ZANONL 


,^o6 

to  shape  a new  one.  The  first  step  toward  construction 
must  be  to  destroy  the  destroyers.  While  we  deliberate, 
your  enemies  act.  Better  this  very  night  to  attack  the  handful 
of  gen-d’armes  that  guard  them,  than  to  confront  the  battal- 
ions they  may  raise  to-morrow.” 

“ No,”  said  Robespierre,  who  recoiled  before  the  deter- 
mined spirit  of  Payan  ; “ I have  a better  and  safer  plan. 
This  is  the  sixth  of  Thermidor ; on  the  loth — on  the  loth,  the 
Convention  go  in  a body  to  the  FHe  Dkadaire.  A mob  shall 
form  ; the  canonniers^  the  troops  of  Henriot,  the  young  pupils 
de  r Ecole  de  Mars,  shall  mix  in  the  crowd.  Easy,  then,  to 
strike  the  conspirators  whom  we  shall  designate  to  our  agents. 
On  the  same  day,  too,  Fouquier  and  Dumas  shall  not  rest ; 
and  a sufficient  number  of  ‘ the  suspect  ’ to  maintain  salutary 
awe,  and  keep  up  the  revolutionary  excitement,  shall  perish 
by  the  glaive  of  the  law.  The  loth  shall  be  the  great  day  of 
action.  Payan,  of  these  last  culprits,  have  you  prepared  a 
list?” 

“ It  is  here,”  returned  Payan,  laconically,  presenting  a 
paper. 

Robespierre  glanced  over  it  rapidly.  “ Collot  d’Herbois  ! 
— good ! Barrbre  ! — ay,  it  was  Barr^re  who  said,  ‘ Let  us 

strike;  the  dead  alone  never  return.’*  Vadier,  the  savage 
jester  ! — good — good  ! Vadier  of  the  Mountain.  He  has 
called  me  ‘ Mahomet ! ’ Scelerat ! blasphemer ! ” 

“ Mahomet  is  coming  to  the  mountain,”  said  Couthon,  with 
his  silvery  accent,  as  he  caressed  his  spaniel. 

“ But  how  is  this  ? I do  not  see  the  name  of  Tallien  ! 
Tallien — I hate  that  man  ; that  is,”  said  Robespierre,  correct- 
ing himself  with  the  hypocrisy  or  self-deceit  which  those  who 
formed  the  council  of  this  phrase-monger  exhibited  habitually, 
even  among  themselves — “ that  is.  Virtue  and  our  Country 
hate  him ! There  is  no  man  in  the  whole  Convention  who 
inspires  me  with  the  same  horror  as  Tallien.  Couthon,  I sec 
a thousand  Dan  tons  where  Tallien  sits  ! ” 

“ Tallien  has  the  only  head  that  belongs  to  this  deformed 
body,”  said  Payan,  whose  ferocity  and  crime,  like  those  of 
St.  Just,  were  not  unaccompanied  by  talents  of  no  common 
order.  Were  it  not  better  to  draw  away  the  head,  to  win, 
to  buy  him,  for  the  time,  and  dispose  of  him  better  when  left 
alone  ? He  may  hate  you,\)vX  he  loves  money 

“ No,”  said  Robespierre,  writing  down  the  name  of  Jean 

? **  Frappons ! il  n’y  a qua  l«s  morts  qui  ne  revient  pas.”— Barker*. 


ZANONI. 


Lambert  Tallien,  with  a slow  hand,  that  shaped  each  lettef 
with  a stern  distinctness ; “ that  one  head  is  my  necessity!'' 

“ I have  a small  list  here,”  said  Couthon,  sweetly — “ a very 
small  list.  You  are  dealing  with  the  Mountain ; it  is  neces- 
sary to  make  a few  examples  in  the  Plain.  These  moderates 
are  as  straws  which  follow  the  wind.  They  turned  against  us 
yesterday  in  the  Convention.  A little  terror  will  correct  the 
weathercocks.  Poor  creatures ! I owe  them  no  ill-will ; I 
could  weep  for  them.  But  before  all,  la  chere patrie  !" 

The  terrible  glance  of  Robespierre  devoured  the  list  which 
the  man  of  sensibility  submitted  to  him.  “Ah,  these  are 
well  chosen  ; men  not  of  mark  enough  to  be  regretted,  which 
is  the  best  policy  with  the  relics  of  that  party ; some,  for- 
eigners too ; — yes,  they  have  no  parents  in  Paris.  These 
wives  and  parents  are  beginning  to  plead  against  us.  Their 
complaints  demoralize  the  guillotine  ! ” 

“ Couthon  is  right,”  said  Payan ; “ my  list  contains  those 
whom  it  will  be  safer  to  dispatch  en  masse  in  the  crowd 
assembled  at  the  Fete.  His  list  selects  those  whom  we  may 
prudently  consign  to  the  law.  Shall  it  not  be  signed  at 
once  ? ” 

“ It  is  signed,”  said  Robespierre,  formally  replacing  his 
pen  upon  the  inkstand.  “ Now  to  more  important  matters. 
These  deaths  will  create  no  excitement ; but  Collot  d’Her- 
bois.  Bourdon  De  I’Oise,  Tallien,” — the  last  name  Robes- 
pierre gasped  as  he  pronounced — '‘‘‘they  are  the  heads  of  par- 
ties. This  is  life  or  death  to  us  as  well  as  them.” 

“Their  heads  are  the  footstools  to  your  curule  chair,”  said 
Payan,  in  a half-whisper.  “There  is  no  danger  if  we  are 
bold.  Judges,  juries,  all  have  been  your  selection.  You 
seize  with  onje  hand  the  army,  with  the  other,  the  law.  Your 

voice  yet  commands  the  people ” 

“The  poor  and  virtuous  people,”  murmured  Robespierre. 
“And  even,”  continued  Payan,  “if  our  design  at  the  Fete 
fail  us,  we  must  not  shrink  from  the  resources  still  at  our 
command.  Reflect!  Henriot,  the  general  of  the  Parisian 
army,  furnishes  you  with  troops  to  arrest ; the  Jacobin  club 
with  a public  to  approve  ; inexorable  Dumas  with  judges  who 
never  acquit.  We  must  be  bold  1 ” 

“ And  we  are  bold,”  exclaimed  Robespierre,  with  sudden 
passion,  and  striking  his  hand  on  the  table  as  he  rose,  with 
his  crest  erect,  as  a serpent  in  the  act  to  strike.  “ In  seeing 
the  multitude  of  vices  that  the  revolutionary  torrent  mingles 
with  civic  virtues,  I tremble  to  be  sullied  in  the  eyes  of 


ZANOm. 


308 

posterity  by  the  impure  neighborhood  of  these  perverse  men, 
who  thrust  themselves  among  the  sincere  defenders  of 
humanity.  What ! — they  think  to  divide  the  country  like  a 
booty ! I thank  them  for  their  hatred  to  all  that  is  virtuous 
and  worthy ! These  men,” — and  he  grasped  the  list  of  Payan 
in  his  hand — “these! — not  we — have  drawn  the  line  of 
demarcation  between  themselves  and  the  lovers  of  France!  ” 

“ True,  we  must  reign  alone  ! ” muttered  Payan  ; “ in 
other  words,  the  state  needs  unity  of  will ; ” working,  with  his 
strong  practical  mind,  the  corollary  from  the  logic  of  his 
word-compelling  colleague  I 

“ I will  go  to  the  Convention,”  continued  Robespierre. 

I have  absented  myself  too  long — lest  I might  seem  to  over 
awe  the  Republic  that  I have  created.  Away  with  such  scru- 
ples ! I will  prepare  the  people  ! I will  blast  the  traitors 
with  a look  ! ” 

He  spoke  with  the  terrible  firmness  of  the  orator  that  had 
never  failed — of  the  moral  will  that  marched  like  a warrior 
on  the  cannon.  At  that  instant  he  was  interrupted  ; a letter 
was  brought  to  him  : he  opened  it : his  face  fell — he  shook 
from  limb  to  limb  ; it  was  one  of  the  anonymous  warnings  by 
which  the  hate  and  revenge  of  those  yet  left  alive  to  threaten 
tortured  the  death-giver. 

“Thou  art  smeared,”  ran  the  lines,  “ with  the  best  blood 
of  France.  Read  thy  sentence  I I await  the  hour  when  the 
people  shall  knell  thee  to  the  doomsman.  If  my  hope 
deceive  me,  if  deferred  too  long — hearken — read  ! This 
hand,  which  thine  eyes  shall  search  in  vain  to  discover,  shall 
pierce  thy  heart.  I see  thee  every  day — I am  with  thee 
every  day.  At  each  hour  my  arm  rises  against  thy  breast. 
Wretch  ! live  yet  awhile,  though  but  for  few  and  miserable 
days — live  to  think  of  me — sleep  to  dream  of  me  ! Thy 
terror,  and  thy  thought  of  me,  are  the  heralds  of  thy  doom. 
Adieu  ! this  day  itself,  I go  forth  to  riot  on  thy  fears  ! ” t 

“ Your  lists  are  not  full  enough  ! ” said  the  tyrant,  with  a 
hollow  voice,  as  the  paper  dropped  from  his  trembling  hand. 
“ Give  them  to  me  ! — give  them  to  me  ! Think  again — think 
again  ! Barrere  is  right — right ! ‘ Frappons  I il  n’y  a que 

les  mprts  qui  ne  revient  pas  1 ” 

1 8te  Pa^ftri  inedits  trouves  ckea  etc.,  Tol.  U.  p.  (N®.  Ix.) 


ZANONL 


309 


CHAPTER  IL 

La  haine,  dans  ces  lieux,  n’a  qu’un  glaive  assassin. 

Elle  marche  dans  Pombre.* 

La  Harpe,  Jeanne  de  Naples^  Act  iv.  sc.  i. 

While  such  were  the  designs  and  fears  of  Maximilien 
Robespierre,  common  danger — common  hatred,  whatever  was 
yet  left  of  mercy  or  of  virtue,  in  the  agents  of  the  Revolution, 
served  to  unite  strange  opposites  in  hostility  to  the  universal 
death-dealer.  There  was,  indeed,  an  actual  conspiracy  at 
work  against  him  among  men  little  less  bespattered  than  him- 
self with  innocent  blood.  But  that  conspiracy  would  have 
been  idle  of  itself,  despite  the  abilities  of  Tallien  and  Barras 
(the  only  men  whom  it  comprised  worthy,  by  foresight  and 
energy,  the  names  of  “ leaders  ”).  The  sure  and  destroying 
elements  that  gathered  round  the  tyrant  were  Time  and 
Nature;  the  one,  which  he  no  longer  suited;  the  other, 
which  he  had  outraged  and  stirred  up  in  the  human  breast. 
The  most  atrocious  party  of  the  Revolution,  the  followers  of 
Hebert,  gone  to  his  last  account,  the  butcher-atheists,  who 
in  desecrating  heaven  and  earth,  still  arrogated  inviolable 
sanctity  to  themselves,  were  equally  enraged  at  the  execution 
of  their  filthy  chief,  and  the  proclamation  of  a Supreme 
Being.  The  populace,  brutal  as  it  had  been,  started  as  from 
a dream  of  blood,  when  their  huge  idol,  Danton,  no  longer 
filled  the  stage  of  terror,  rendering  crime  popular  by  that 
combination  of  careless  frankness  and  eloquent  energy  which 
endears  their  heroes  to  the  herd.  The  glaive  of  the  guillotine 
had  turned  against  themselves.  They  had  yelled  and  shouted, 
and  sung  and  danced,  when  the  venerable  age,  or  the  gallant 
youth,  of  aristocracy  or  letters,  passed  by  their  streets  in  the 
dismal  tumbrils ; but  they  shut  up  their  shops,  and  murmured 
to  each  other,  when  their  own  order  was  invaded,  and  tailors 
and  cobblers,  and  journeymen  and  laborers,  were  huddled  off 
to  the  embraces  of  the  “ Holy  Mother  Guillotine,”  with  as 
little  ceremony  as  if  they  had  been  the  Montmorencies  or  the 
La  Trdmouilles,  the  Malesherbes  or  the  Lavoisiers.  “ At  this 

* Hate,  in  these  regions,  has  but  the  sword  of  the  assassin.  She  movM  in  th« 
shade 


3*0 


ZANONL 


time,”  said  Couthon,  justly,  Les  ombres  de  Danton, 
birt^  de  Chaumette,  se promenent parmi  nous  t 

Among  those  who  had  shared  the  doctrines,  and  who  now 
dreaded  the  fate  of  the  atheist  Hebert,  was  the  painter,  Jean 
Nicot.  Mortified  and  enraged  to  find  that,  by  the  death  of 
his  patron,  his  career  was  closed ; and  that,  in  the  zenith  of 
the  Revolution  for  which  he  had  labored,  he  was  lurking  in 
caves  and  cellars,  more  poor,  'more  obscure,  more  despicable 
than  he  had  been  at  the  commencement — not  daring  to  exer- 
cise even  his  art,  and  fearful  every  hour  that  his  name  would 
swell  the  lists  of  the  condemned  ; he  was  naturally  one  of  the 
bitterest  enemies  of  Robespierre  and  his  government.  He 
held  secret  meetings  with  Collot  d’Herbois,  who  was  animated 
by  the  same  spirit ; and  with  the  creeping  and  furtive  craft  that 
characterized  his  abilities,  he  contrived,  undetected,  to  dissem- 
inate tracts  and  invectives  against  the  Dictator,  and  to  pre- 
pare, amid  “ the  poor  and  virtuous  people,”  the  train  for  the 
grand  explosion.  But  still  so  firm  to  the  eyes,  even  of  pro- 
founder  politicians  than  Jean  Nicot,  appeared  the  sullen 
power  of  the  incorruptible  Maximilien  ; so  timorous  was  the 
movement  against  him,  that  Nicot,  in  common  with  many 
others,  placed  his  hopes  rather  in  the  dagger  of  the  assassin, 
than  the  revolt  of  the  multitude.  But  Nicot,  though  not 
actually  a coward,  shrunk  himself  from  braving  the  fate  of 
the  martyr ; he  had  sense  enough  to  see  that,  though  all  par- 
ties might  rejoice  in  the  assassination,  all  parties  would  prob- 
ably concur  in  beheading  the  assassin.  He  had  not  the 
virtue  to  become  a Brutus.  His  object  was  to  inspire  a 
proxy-Brutus ; and  in  the  center  of  that  inflammable  popula- 
tion, this  was  no  improbable  hope. 

Among  those  loudest  and  sternest  against  the  reign  of 
blood — among  those  most  disenchanted  of  the  Revolution 
— among  those  most  appalled  by  its  excesses,  was,  as  might 
be  expected,  the  Englishman,  Clarence  Glyndon.  The  wit 
and  acomplishments,  the  uncertain  virtues  that  had  lighted 
with  fitful  gleams  the  mind  of  Camille  Desmoulins,  had  fasci- 
nated Glyndon  more  than  the  qualities  of  any  other  agent  in 
the  Revolution.  And  when  (for  Camille  Desmoulins  had  a 
heart,  which  seemed  dead  or  dormant  in  most  of  his  contem- 
poraries) that  vivid  child  of  genius  and  of  error,  shocked  at 
the  massacre  of  the  Girondins,  and  repentant  of  his  own 
efforts  against  them,  began  to  rouse  the  serpent  malice  of 
Robespierre  by  new  doctrines  of  mercy  and  toleration,  Glyn- 

+ The  shades  of  Danton,  Hebert,  and  Chaumette,  walk  among  us. 


ZAN-Om. 


31* 


don  espoused  his  views  with  his  whole  strength  and  soul. 
Camille  Desmoulins  perished,  and  Glyndon,  hopeless  at  once 
of  his  own  life  and  the  cause  of  humanity,  from  that  time 
sought  only  the  occasion  of  flight  from  the  devouring  Golgo- 
tha. He  has  two  lives  tp  heed  besides  his  own  : for  them  he 
trembled,  and  for  them  he  schemed  and  plotted  the  means  of 
escape.  Though  Glyndon  hated  the  principles,  the  party, f 
and  the  vices  of  Nicot,  he  yet  extended  to  the  painter’s  penury 
the  means  of  subsistence ; and  Jean  Nicot,  in  return,  designed 
to  exalt  Glyndon  to  that  very  immortality  of  a Brutus  from 
which  he  modestly  recoiled  himself.  He  founded  his  designs 
on  the  physical  courage,  on  the  wild  and  unsettled  fancies  of 
the  English  artist ; and  on  the  vehement  hate,  and  indignant 
loathing,  with  which  he  openly  regarded  the  government  of 
Maximilien. 

At  the  same  hour,  on  the  same  day  in  July,  in  which  Robes- 
pierre conferred  (as  we  have  seen)  with  his  allies,  two  persons 
were  seated  in  a small  room,  in  one  of  the  streets  leading  out 
of  the  Rue  St.  Honord ; the  one,  a man,  appeared  listening 
impatiently,  and  with  a sullen  brow,  to  his  companion,  a 
woman  of  singular  beauty,  but  with  a bold  and  reckless  expres- 
sion, and  her  face  as  she  spoke  was  animated  by  the  passions 
of  a half-savage  and  vehememt  nature. 

“ Englishman,”  said  the  woman,  “ beware — you  know  that, 
whether  in  flight  or  at  the  place  of  death,  I would  brave  all 
to  be  by  your  side— you  know  that  ! Speak  ! ” 

“ Well,  Fillide ; did  I ever  doubt  your  fidelity  ? ” 

“ Doubt  it  you  can  not — betray  it  you  may.  You  tell  me 
that  in  flight  you  must  have  a companion  besides  myself,  and 
that  companion  is  a female.  It  shall  not  be  ! ” 

“ Shall  not ! ” 

“ It  shall  not ! ” repeated  Fillide,  firmly,  and  folding  her 
arms  across  her  breast ; before  Glyndon  could  reply,  a slight 
knock  at  the  door  was  heard,  and  Nicot  opened  the  latch  and 
entered. 

Fillide  sank  into  her  chair,  and  leaning  her  face  on  her 
hands,  appeared  unheeding  of  the  intruder,  and  of  the  con- 
versation that  ensued. 

^ “ I can  not  bid  thee  good  day,  Glyndon,”  said  Nicot,  as  in 
his  sans-culotte  fashion  he  strode  toward  the  artist,  his  ragged 

t None  were  more  opposed  to  the  Hebertists  than  Camille  Desmoulins  and  his 
.nends.  It  is  curious  and  amusing  to  see  these  leaders  of  the  mob,  calling  the  mob 
the  people,  one  day,  and  the  “ canaille,”  the  next,  according  as  it  suits  them.  “ 1 
know,  says  Camille;‘  that  they  (the  Hebertists)  have  all  the  canaille  with  them,’ 
(Ws  opt  tppte  \?i  canaiUe  pogr  egx.) 


312 


ZANONL 


hat  on  his  head,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  the  beard  of  a 
week’s-^  growth  upon  his  chin — “ I can  not  bid  thee  good  day, 
for  while  the  tyrant  lives,  evil  is  every  sun  that  sheds  its  beams 
on  France.” 

“ It  is  true  ; what  then  ? We  have  sown  the  wind,  we  must 
reap  the  whirlwind.” 

“ And  yet,”  said  Nicot,  apparently  not  heeding  the  reply, 
and  as  if  musingly  to  himself,  “ it  is  strange  to  think  that  the 
butcher  is  as  mortal  as  the  butchered — that  his  life  hangs  or 
as  slight  a thread — that  between  the  cuticle  and  the  heart 
there  is  as  short  a passage — that,  in  short,  one  blow  can  free 
France,  and  redeem  mankind ! ” 

Glyndon  surveyed  the  speaker  with  careless  and  haughty 
scorn,  -and  made  no  answer. 

“ And,”  proceeded  Nicot,  “ I have  sometimes  looked  round 
for  the  man  born  for  this  destiny,  and  whenever  I have  done 
so,  my  steps  have  led  me  hither ! ” 

“ Should  they  not  rather  have  led  thee  to  the  side  of  Max- 
imilien  Robespierre .?  ” said  Glyndon,  with  a sneer. 

“ No,”  returned  Nicot,  coldly — “ no  ; for  I am  a '‘suspect^ — I 
could  not  mix  with  his  train ; I could  not  approach  within  a 
hundred  yards  of  his  person,  but  I should  be  seized ; you^  as 
yet,  are  safe.  Hear  me ! ” — and  his  voice  became  earnest 
and  expressive — “ hear  me  ! There  seems  danger  in  this  ac- 
tion ; there  is  none.  I have  been  with  Collot  d’Herbois 
and  Billaud-Varennes  ; they  will  hold  him  harmless  who 
strikes  the  blow ; the  populace  would  run  to  thy  support ; the 
Convention  would  hail  thee  as  their  deliverer — the ” 

“ Hold,  man  ! How  darest  thou  couple  my  name  with  the 
act  of  an  assassin  ? Let  the  tocsin  sound  from  yonder  tower, 
to  a war  between  Humanity  and  the  Tyrant,  and  I will  not 
be  the  last  in  the  field ; but  liberty  never  yet  acknowledged  a 
defender  in  a felon.” 

There  was  something  so  brave  and  noble  in  Glyndon’s 
voice,  mien,  and  manner,  as  he  thus  spoke,  that  Nicot  at  once 
was  silenced ; at  once  he  saw  that  he  had  misjudged  the  man. 

“ No,”  said  Fillide,  lifting  her  face  from  her  hands — “ no  ! 
your  friend  has  a wiser  scheme  in  preparation;  he  would 
leave  you  wolves  to  mangle  each  other.  He  is  right ; 
but ” 

“ Flight ! ” exclaimed  Nicot ; “ is  it  possible  ? Flight ! 
Ilow? — when? — by  what  means?  All  France  begirt  with 
spies  and  guards ! Flight ! would  to  heaven  it  were  in  oui 
power  J ” 


ZANONT. 


%n 

“ Dost  thou,  too,  desire  to  escape  the  blessed  Revolution  ? ” 
“ Desire  ! Oh  I ” cried  Nicot,  suddenly,  and,  falling  down, 
he  clasped  Glyndon’s  knees — “ Oh ! save  me  with  thyself  ! 
My  life  is  a torture ; every  moment  the  guillotine  frowns  be* 
fore  me.  I know  that  my  hours  are  numbered;  I know 
that  the  tyrant  waits  but  his  time  to  write  my  name  in  his  in- 
exorable list ! I know  that  Rene  Dumas,  the  judge  who 
never  pardons,  has,  from  the  first,  resolved  upon  my  death. 
Oh ! Glyndon,  by  our  old  friendship — by  our  common  art — 
by  thy  loyal  English  faith,  and  good  English  heart,  let  me 
share  thy  flight ! ” 

“ If  thou  wilt,  so  be  it.’’ 

“ Thanks  ! — my  whole  life  shall  thank  thee.  But  how  hast 
thou  prepared  the  means — the  passports,  the  disguise,  the — ” 

“ I will  tell  thee.  Thou  knowest  C , of  the  Convention 

— he  has  power,  and  he  is  covetous.  ‘ Qu'on  me  meprise^ 
pourvuque  je  dine said  he,  when  reproached  for  his  avarice.’* 
Well  ? ” 

“ By  the  help  of  this  sturdy  republican,  who  has  friends 
enough  in  the  Comitk^  I have  obtained  the  means  necessary 
for  flight;  I have  purchased  them.  For  a consideration,  I can 
procure  thy  passport  also.” 

“ Thy  riches,  then,  are  not  in  assignats  t ” 

“No,  I have  gold  enough  for  us  all.” 

And,  here  Glyndon,  beckoning  Nicot  into  the  next  room, 
first  briefly  and  rapidly  detailed  to  him  the  plan  proposed, 
and  the  disguises  to  be  assumed  conformably  to  the  pass: 
ports,  and  then  added — “ In  return  for  the  service  I rendei 
thee,  grant  me  one  favor,  which  I think  is  in  thy  power 
Thou  rememberest  Viola  Pisani } ” 

“ Ah — remember,  yes  ! — and  the  lover  with  whom  she  fled.” 
“ And  from  whom  she  is  a fugitive  now.” 

“ Indeed — what ! — I understand.  Sacrk  blue  ! but  you  are 
a lucky  fellow,  cher  confrere^ 

“ Silence,  man  1 with  thy  eternal  prate  of  brotherhood  and 
virtue,  thou  seemest  never  to  believe  in  one  kindly  action,  or 
one  virtuous  thought ! ” 

Nicot  bit  his  lip,  and  replied  sullenly,  “ Experience  is  a 
great  undeceiver.  Humph  ! What  service  can  I do  thee, 
with  regard  to  the  Italian  ? ” 

“ I have  been  accessary  to  her  arrival  in  this  city  of  snares 
and  pitfalls.  I can  not  leave  her  alone  amid  dangers  from 
which  neither  innocence  nor  obscurity  is  a safeguard.  In 

* Let  them  despise  me,  provided  that  1 dine. 


3*4 


ZANONI, 


your  blessed  Republic,  a good  and  unsuspected  citizen,  who 
casts  a desire  on  any  woman,  maid  or  wife,  has  but  to  say, 
‘ Be  mine,  or  I denounce  you  ! ’ — In  a word,  Viola  must  share 
our  flight.’^ 

“ What  so  easy  ? I see  your  passports  provide  for  her.” 

“ What  so  easy  I What  so  difficult  ? This  Fillide — would 
that  I had  never  seen  her  ! — would  that  I had  never  enslaved 
my  soul  to  my  senses ! The  love  of  an  uneducated,  violent, 
unprincipled  woman,  opens  with  a heaven,  to  merge  in  a hell ! 
She  is  jealous  as  all  the  Furies ; she  will  not  hear  of  a female 
companion  ; — and  when  once  she  sees  the  beauty  of  Viola ! — 
I tremble  to  think  of  it.  She  is  capable  of  any  excess  in  the 
storm  of  her  passions.” 

“ Aha,  I know  what  such  women  are  ! My  wife,  Beatrice 
Sacchini,  whom  I took  from  Naples,  when  I failed  with  this 
very  Viola,  divorced  me  when  my  money  failed,  and,  as  the 
mistress  of  a judge,  passes  me  in  her  carriage  while  I crawl 
through  the  streets.  Plague  on  her  ! — but  patience,  patience  ! 
such  is  the  lot  of  virtue.  Would  I were  Robespierre  for  a 
day ! ” 

“ Cease  these  tirades ! ” exclaimed  Glyndon,  impatiently  : 
“ and  to  the  point.  What  would  you  advise  ? ” 

“ Leave  your  Fillide  behind.” 

“ Leave  her  to  her  own  ignorance — leave  her  unprotected 
even  by  the  mind — leave  her  in  the  Saturnalia  of  Rape  and 
Murder  1 — No  ! I have  sinned  against  her  once.  But  come 
what  may,  I will  not  so  basely  desert  one  who,  with  all 
her  errors,  trusted  her  fate  to  my  love.” 

“ You  deserted  her  at  Marseilles.” 

“ True  ; but  I left  her  in  safety,  and  I did  not  then  believe 
her  love  to  be  so  deep  and  faithful.  I left  her  gold,  and  I 
imagined  she  would  be  easily  consoled ; but  since  then,  we 
have  known  danger  together  ! And  now  to  leave  her  alone  to 
that  danger  which  she  would  never  have  incurred  but  for 
devotion  to  me  ! — no,  that  is  impossible  ! A project  occurs 
to  me.  Canst  thou  not  say  that  thou  hast  a sister,  a relative, 
or  a benefactress,  whom  thou  wouldst  save  } Can  we  not — 
till  we  have  left  France — make  Fillide  believe  that  Viola  is 
one  in  whom  thou  only  art  interested  ; and  whom,  for  thy 
sake  only,  I permit  to  share  in  our  escape  ? ” 

“ Ha,  well  thought  of ! — certainly  ! ” 

“ I will  then  appear  to  yield  to  Fillide’s  wl«'hes,  and  resign 
the  project,  which  she  so  resents,  of  saving  the  innocent  object 


ZANONl. 


3H 


of  her  frantic  jealousy.  You,  meanwhile,  shall  yourself  entreat 
Fillide  to  intercede  with  me  to  extend  the  means  of  escape 
to ” 

“ To  a lady  (she  knows  I have  no  sister)  who  has  aided  me 
in  my  distress.  Yes,  I will  manage  all,  never  fear.  One 
word  more — ^what  has  become  of  that  Zanoni  ? ” 

“ Talk  not  of  him — I know  not.” 

“ Does  he  love  this  girl  still  ? ” 

“ It  would  seem  so,.  She  is  his  wife,  the  mother  of  hi^ 
infant,  who  is  with  her.” 

“ Wife  ! — mother ! He  loves  her ! Aha  ! And  why ” 

“No  questions  now.  I will  go  and  prepare  Viola  for  the 
flight  ; you,  meanwhile,  return  to  Fillide.” 

“ But  the  address  of  the  Neapolitan  ? It  is  necessary  I 
should  know,  lest  Fillide  inquire.” 

“Rue  M T , No.  27.  Adieu.” 

Glyndon  seized  his  hat,  and  hastened  from  the  house. 
Nicot,  left  alone,  seemed  for  a few  moments  buried  in 
thought.  “ Oho,”  he  muttered  to  himself,  “ can  I not  turn  all 
this  to  my  account  ? Can  I not  avenge  myself  on  thee, 
Zanoni,  as  I have  so  often  sworn — through  thy  wife  and  child  ? 
Can  I not  possess  myself  of  thy  gold,  thy  passports,  and  thy 
Fillide,  hot  Englishman,  who  wouldst  humble  me  with  thy 
loathed  benefits,  and  who  hast  chucked  me  thine  alms  as  to  a 
beggar  ? And  Fillide,  I love  her : and  thy  gold,  I love  thai 
more  ! Puppets,  I move  your  strings  ! ” 

He  passed  slowly  into  the  chamber  where  Fillide  yet  sat, 
with  gloomy  thought  on  her  brow  and  tears  standing  in  her 
dark  eyes.  She  looked  up  eagerly  as  the  door  opened,  and 
turned  from  the  rugged  face  of  Nicot  with  an  impatient 
movement  of  disappointment. 

“Glyndon,”  said  the  painter,  drawing  a chair  to  Fillide’s, 
“ has  left  me  to  enliven  your  solitude,  fair  Italian.  He  is  not 
jealous  of  the  ugly  Nicot ! — ha,  ha ! — yet  Nicot  loved  thee 
well  once,  when  his  fortunes  were  more  fair.  But  enough  of 
such  past  follies.” 

“Your  friend,  then,  has  left  the  house.  Whither?  Ah! 
you  look  away — you  falter — ^you  can  not  meet  my  eyes! 
Speak  ! I implore,  I command  thee,  speak ! ” 

Enfmit ! and  what  dost  thou  fear  ? ” 

'■^Fear f — yes,  alas,  I fear!”  said  the  Italian;  and  her 
whole  frame  seemed  to  shrink  into  itself  as  she  fell  once 
more  back  into  her  seat. 

Then,  after  a pause,  she  tossed  the  long  hair  from  hei 


3i6 


ZANONI. 


eyes,  and,  starting  up  abruptly,  paced  the  room  with  dison 
dered  strides.  At  length  she  stopped  opposite  to  Nicot,  laid 
her  hand  on  his  arm,  drew  him  toward  an  escritoire,  which 
she  unlocked,  and  opening  a well,  pointed  to  the  gold  that 
lay  within,  and  said — “ Thou  art  poor — thou  lovest  money  ; 
take  what  thou  wilt,  but  undeceive  me.  Who  is  this  woman 
whom  thy  friend  visits  ? — and  does  he  love  her  ? ” 

Nicot’s  eyes  sparkled,  and  his  hands  opened  and  clenched, 
and  clenched  and  opened,  as  he  gazed  upon  the  coins.  But 
reluctantly  resisting  the  impulse,  he  said,  with  an  affected 
bitterness, — “ Thinkest  thou  to  bribe  me  ? — if  so,  it  can  not 
be  with  gold.  But  what  if  he  does  love  a rival  ? — what  if  he 
does  betray  thee  ? — what  if,  wearied  by  thy  jealousies,  he  de- 
signs in  his  flight  to  leave  thee  behind  ? — would  such  knowl- 
edge make  thee  happier  ? ” 

“Yes!  ” exclaimed  the  Italian  fiercely;  “yes,  for  it  would 
be  happiness  to  hate  and  to  be  avenged ! Oh,  thou  knowest 
not  how  sweet  is  hatred  to  those  who  have  really  loved.” 

“ But  wilt  thou  swear,  if  I reveal  to  thee  the  secret,  that 
thou  wilt  not  betray  me — that  thou  wilt  not  fall,  as  women 
do,  into  weak  tears  and  fond  reproaches  when  thy  betrayer 
returns  ? ” 

“ Tears — reproaches  ! — Revenge  hides  itself  in  smiles  ! ” 

“ Thou  art  a brave  creature  1 ” said  Nicot,  almost  admir- 
ingly. “ One  condition  more  : thy  lover  designs  to  fly  with 
his  new  love,  to  leave  thee  to  thy  fate;  if  I prove  this  to 
thee,  and  if  I give  thee  revenge  against  thy  rival,  wilt  thou 
fly  with  me  ? I love  thee  ! — I will  wed  thee  I ” Fillide’s 
eyes  flashed  fire ; she  looked  at  him  with  unutterable  disdain, 
and  was  silent. 

Nicot  felt  he  had  gone  too  far ; and  with  that  knowledge  of 
the  evil  part  of  our  nature,  which  his  own  heart  and  associa- 
tion  with  crime  had  taught  him,  he  resolved  to  trust  the  rest 
to  the  passions  of  the  Italian,  when  raised  to  the  height  to 
which  he  was  prepared  to  lead  them. 

“ Pardon  me,”  he  said  : “ my  love  made  me  too  presumptu- 
ous ; and  yet  it  is  only  that  love — my  sympathy  for  thee,  beau- 
tiful and  betrayed,  that  can  induce  me  to  wrong,  with  my  rev- 
elations, one  whom  I have  regarded  as  a brother.  I cair 
depend  upon  thine  oath  to  conceal  all  from  Glyndon  ? ” 

“ On  my  oath  and  my  wrongs,  and  my  mountain  blood  I ” 

“ Enough  ! get  thy  hat  and  mantle,  and  follow  me.” 

As  Fillide  left  the  room,  Nicot’s  eyes  again  rested  on  the 
gold  ; it  was  much — much  more  than  he  had  dared  to  hope 


ZANONL 


317 


for ; and  as  he  peered  into  the  well,  and  opened  the  drawers, 
he  perceived  a packet  of  letters  in  the  well-known  hand  of 
Camille  Desmoulins.  He  seized — he  opened  the  packet ; his 
looks  brightened  as  he  glanced  over  a few  sentences.  “ This 
would  give  fifty  Glyndons  to  the  guillotine  ! ” he  muttered,  and 
thrust  the  packet  into  his  bosom. 

O Artist ! — O haunted  one  ! — O erring  Genius  ! — Behold 
the  two  worst  foes — the  False  Ideal  that  knows  no  God,  and 
the  False  Love  that  burns  from  the  corruption  of  the  senses, 
and  takes  no  luster  from  the  soul ! 


CHAPTER  HI. 

Lidsd  sonnt  das  Reich  der  Nacht.* 

Der  Triumph  Der  Liebe. 

LETTER  FROM  ZANONI  TO  MEJNOUR. 

Paris. 

Dost  thou  remember  in  the  old  time,  when  the  Beautiful 
yet  dwelt  in  Greece,  how  we  two,  in  the  vast  Athenian 
Theater,  witnessed  the  birth  of  Words  as  undying  as  our- 
selves ? Dost  thou  remember  the  thrill  of  terror  that  ran 
through  that  mighty  audience,  when  the  wild  Cassandra 
burst  from  her  awful  silence  to  shriek  to  her  relentless  god  ! 
How  ghastly,  at  the  entrance  of  the  House  of  Atreus,  about  to 
become  her  tomb — rang  out  her  exclamations  of  foreboding 
woe — “ Dwelling  abhorred  of  Heaven  ! — human  shamble- 
house,  and  floor  blood-bespattered  ! ’’t  Dost  thou  remember 
how,  amid  the  breathless  awe  of  those  assembled  thousands, 
I drew  close  to  thee,  and  whispered,  “Verily,  no  prophet 
like  the  Poet ! This  scene  of  fabled  horror  comes  to  me  as  a 
dream,  shadowing  forth  some  likeness  in  my  own  remoter 
future  ! ” As  I enter  this  slaughter-house,  that  scene  returns 
to  me,  and  I hearken  to  the  voice  of  Cassandra  ringing  in  my 
ears.  A solemn  and  warning  dread  gathers  round  me,  as  if  I 
too  were  come  to  find  a grave,  and  “ the  Net  of  Hades  ” had 
already  entangled  me  in  its  web  ! What  dark  treasure-houses 
of  vicissitude  and  woe  are  our  memories  become  ! What  our 
lives  but  the  chronicles  of  unrelenting  Death  ! It  seems  to  me  as 
yesterday  when  I stood  in  the  streets  of  this  city  of  the  Gaul, 
as  they  shone  with  plumed  chivalry,  and  the  air  rustled  with 
* Love  illumes  the  realms  of  Night  t .®sch.  Agam.  1098. 


ZANONL 


318 

silken  braveries.  Young  Louis,  the  monarch  and  the  love?, 
was  victor  of  the  Tournament  at  the  Carousal ; and  all  France 
felt  herself  splendid  in  the  splendor  of  her  gorgeous  chief ! 
Now  there  is  neither  throne  nor  altar;  and  what  is,  in  their 
stead  ? I see  it  yonder — the  guillotine  ! It  is  dismal  to 
stand  amid  the  ruins  of  moldering  cities,  to  startle  the  serpent 
and  the  lizard  amid  the  wrecks  of  Persepolis  and  Thebes  ; 
but  more  dismal  still  to  stand  as  I — the  stranger  from 
Empires  that  have  ceased  to  be — stand  now  amid  the  yet 
ghastlier  ruins  of  Law  and  Order,  the  shattering  of  mankind 
themselves ! Yet  here,  even  here,  Love,  the  beautifier,  that 
hath  led  my  steps,  can  walk  with  unshrinking  hope  through 
the  wilderness  of  Death  ! Strange  is  the  passion  that  makes 
a world  in  itseK,  that  individualizes  the  One  amid  the  Multh 
tude ; that,  through  all  the  changes  of  my  solemn  life,  yet  sur- 
vives, though  ambition,  and  hate,  and  anger,  are  dead  ; the 
one  solitary  angel,  hovering  over  a universe  of  tombs  on  its 
two  tremulous  and  human  wings — Hope  and  Fear ! 

How  is  it,  Mejnour,  that,  as  my  diviner  art  abandoned  me 
— as,  in  my  search  for  Viola,  I was  aided  but  by  the  ordinary 
instincts  of  the  merest  mortal — how  is  it  that  I have  never 
desponded,  that  I have  felt  in  every  difficulty  the  prevailing 
prescience  that  we  should  meet  at  last  ? So  cruelly  was  every 
vestige  of  her  flight  concealed  from  me — so  suddenly,  so 
secretly  had  she  fled,  that  all  the  spies,  all  the  Authorities  of 
Venice,  could  give  me  no  clue.  All  Italy  I searched  in  vain  ! 
Her  young  home  at  Naples  ! — how  still,  in  its  humble  cham- 
bers, there  seemed  to  linger  the  fragrance  of  her  presence  ! 
All  the  sublimest  secrets  of  our  lore  failed  me— failed  to 
bring  her  soul  visible  to  mine  ; yet  morning  and  night,  thou 
lone  and  childless  one,  morning  and  night,  detached  from 
myself,  I can  commune  with  my  child  ! There,  in  that  most 
blessed,  typical,  and  mysterious  of  all  relations.  Nature  her- 
self appears  to  supply  what  Science  would  refuse.  Space 
can  not  separate  the  Father’s  watchful  soul  from  the  cradle  of 
his  first-born  ! I know  not  of  its  resting-place  and  home — 
my  visions  picture  not  the  land — only  the  small  and  tender 
life  to  which  all  space  is  as  yet  the  heritage  ! For  to  the 
infant,  before  reason  dawns — before  man’s  bad  passions  can 
dim  the  essence  that  it  takes  from  the  element  it  hath  left, 
there  is  no  peculiar  country,  no  native  city,  and  no  mortal 
language.  Its  soul  as  yet  is  the  denizen  of  all  airs  and  of 
every  world ; and  in  space  its  soul  meets  with  mine — the  Child 
communes  with  the  Father ! Cruel  and  forsaking  one — thou 


ZANONI. 


319 


for  whom  I left  the  wisdom  of  the  spheres — thou,  whose  fatal 
dower  has  been  the  weakness  and  terrors  of  humanity — 
couldst  thou  think  that  young  soul  less  safe  on  earth  because 
I would  lead  it  evermore  up  to  heaven  ! Dost  thou  think 
that  I could  have  wronged  mine  own  ? Didst  thou  not  know 
that  in  its  serenest  eyes  the  life  that  I gave  it  spoke  to  warn, 
to  upbraid  the  mother  who  would  bind  it  to  the  darkness  and 
pangs  of  the  prison-house  of  clay  ? Didst  thou  not  feel  that 
it  was  I who,  permitted  by  the  Heavens,  shielded  it  from 
suffering  and  disease  ? And  in  its  wondrous  beauty,  I bless- 
ed the  holy  medium  through  which,  at  last,  my  spirit  might 
confer  with  thine  ! 

And  how  have  I tracked  them  hither  ? I learned  that  thy 
pupil  had  been  at  Venice.  I could  not  trace  the  young  and 
gentle  Neophyte  of  Parthenope  in  the  description  of  the 
haggard  and  savage  visitor  who  had  come  to  Viola  before  she 
fled ; but  when  I would  have  summoned  his  idea  before  me, 
it  refused  to  obey ; and  I knew  then  that  his  fate  had  become 
entwined  with  Viola’s.  I have  tracked  him,  then,  to  his 
Lazar  House  ; I arrived  but  yesterday ; I have  not  yet  discov- 
wed  him. 

*7v  ^ "/V  'TV'  'Tv  ^ 

I have  just  returned  from  their  courts  of  justice — dens 
where  tigers  arraign  their  prey.  I find  not  whom  I would 
seek.  They  are  saved  as  yet ; but  I recognize  in  the  crimes 
of  mortals  the  dark  wisdom  of  the  Everlasting.  Mejnour,  I 
see  here,  for  the  first  time,  how  majestic  and  beauteous  a 
thing  is  Death  ! Of  what  sublime  virtues  we  robbed  our- 
selves, when,  in  the  thirst  for  virtue,  we  attained  the  art  by 
which  we  can  refuse  to  die  ! — When  in  some  happy  clime, 
where  to  breathe  is  to  enjoy,  the  charnel-house  swallows  up 
the  young  and  fair — when,  in  the  noble  pursuit  of  knowledge, 
Death  comes  to  the  student,  and  shuts  out  the  enchanted 
land,  which  was  opening  to  his  gaze,  how  natural  for  us  to 
desire  to  live  ; how  natural  to  make  perpetual  life  the  first 
object  of  research  ! But  here,  from  my  tower  of  time,  looking 
over  the  darksome  past,  and  into  the  starry  future,  I learn 
how  great  hearts  feel  what  sweetness  and  glory  there  is  to  die 
for  the  things  they  love  ! I saw  a father  sacrificing  himself 
for  his  son  ; he  was  subjected  to  charges  which  a word  of  his 
could  dispel — he  was  mistaken  for  his  boy.  With  what  joy 
he  seized  the  error — confessed  the  noble  crimes  of  valor  and 
fidelity  which  the  son  had  indeed  committed — and  went  to 
the  doom,  exulting  that  his  death  saved  the  life  he  had  given^ 


ZANONL 


not  in  vain  ! I saw  women,  young,  delicate,  in  the  bloom  of 
their  beauty ; they  had  vowed  themselves  to  the  cloister. 
Hands  smeared  with  the  blood  of  saints  opened  the  grate 
that  had  shut  them  from  the  world,  and  bade  them  go  forth, 
forget  their  vows,  forswear  the  Divine  One  these  daemons 
would  depose,  find  lovers  and  helpmates,  and  be  free.  And 
some  of  these  young  hearts  had  loved,  and  even,  though  in 
struggles,  loved  yet.  Did  they  forswear  the  vow  ? Did  they 
abandon  the  faith  ? Did  even  love  allure  them  ? Mejnour, 
with  one  voice,  they  preferred  to  die  ! And  whence  comes 
this  courage  ? because  such  hearts  live  in  some  more  abstract 
and  holier  life  than  their  own.  But  to  live  forever  upon  this 
earth,  is  to  live  in  nothing  diviner  than  ourselves.  Yes,  even 
amid  this  gory  butcherdom,  God,  the  Ever-living,  vindicates 

to  man  the  sanctity  of  His  servant,  Death  ! 

******* 

Again  I have  seen  thee  in  spirit ; I have  seen  and  blessed  . 
thee,  my  sweet  child  ! Dost  thou  not  know  me  also  in  thy 
dreams  ? Dost  thou  not  feel  the  beating  of  my  heart  through 
the  veil  of  thy  rosy  slumbers  ? Dost  thou  not  hear  the  wings 
of  the  brighter  beings  that  I yet  can  conjure  around  thee,  to 
watch,  to  nourish,  and  to  save  ? And  when  the  spell  fades  at 
thy  waking,  when  thine  eyes  open  to  the  day,  will  they  not 
look  round  for  me,  and  ask  my  mother,  with  their  mute  elo- 
quence, “ why  she  has  robbed  thee  of  a father  t ” 

Woman,  dost  thou  not  repent  thee  ? Flying  from  imag- 
inary fears,  hast  thou  not  come  to  the  very  lair  of  terror, 
where  Danger  sits  visible  and  incarnate  ? Oh,  if  we  could 
but  meet,  wouldst  thou  not  fall  upon  the  bosom  thou  hast  so 
wronged,  and  feel,  poor  wanderer  amid  the  storms,  as  if  thou 
hadst  regained  the  shelter  ? Mejnour,  still  my  researches 
fail  me.  I mingle  with  all  men,  even  their  judges  and  their 
spies,  but  I can  not  yet  gain  the  clue.  I know  that  she  is 
here.  I know  it  by  an  instinct ; the  breath  of  my  child  seems 
warmer  and  more  familiar. 

They  peer  at  me  with  venomons  looks,  as  I pass  through 
their  streets.  With  a glance  I disarm  their  malice,  and  fasci- 
nate the  basilisks.  Everywhere  I see  the  track  and  scent  the 
presence  of  the  Ghostly  One , that  dwells  on  the  Threshold, 
and  whose  victims  are  the  souls  that  would  aspire,  and  can 
only  fear.  I see  its  dim  shapelessness  going  before  the  men 
of  blood,  and  marshaling  their  way.  Robespierre  passed 
me  with  his  furtive  step.  Those  eyes  of  horror  were  gnaw- 
ing into  his  heart.  I looked  down  upon  their  senate ; the 


zAmm. 


331 


grim  Phantom  sat  cowering  on  its  floor.  It  hath  taken  up  its 
abode  in  the  city  of  Dread.  And  what  in  truth  are  these 
would-be  builders  of  a new  world  ? Like  the  students  who 
have  vainly  struggled  after  our  supreme  science,  they  have 
attempted  what  is  beyond  their  power;  they  have  passed 
from  this  solid  earth  of  usages  and  forms,  into  the  land  of 
shadow;  and  its  loathsome  keeper  has  seized  them  as  its 
prey.  I looked  into  the  tyrant’s  shuddering  soul,  as  it  trem- 
bled past  me.  There  amid  the  ruins  of  a thousand  systems 
which  aimed  at  virtue,  sat  Crime,  and  shivered  at  its  desola 
tion.  Yet  this  man  is  the  only  Thinker,  the  only  Aspirant 
among  them  all.  He  still  looks  for  a future  of  peace  and 
mercy,  to  begin — ay  ! at  what  date  ? When  he  has  swept 
away  every  foe.  Fool  ! new  foes  spring  from  every  drop  oi 
blood.  Led  by  the  eyes  of  the  Unutterable,  he  is  walking  to 
his  doom. 

O Viola,  thy  innocence  protects  thee  ! Thou  whom  the 
sweet  humanities  of  love  shut  out  even  from  the  dreams  of 
aerial  and  spiritual  beauty,  making  thy  heart  a universe  of 
visions  fairer  than  the  wanderer  over  the  rosy  Hesperus  can 
survey — shall  not  the  same  pure  affection  encompass  thee, 
even  here,  with  a charmed  atmosphere ; and  terror  itself  fall 
harmless  on  a life  too  innocent  for  wisdom  ? 

******* 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Ombra  piu  che  di  notte,  in  cudi  di  luc-c 

Raggio  misto  non  e ; 

* * * 

pill  il  palagio  appar,  nh  piii  le  sue 
Vestigia;  n^  dir  puossi — egli  qui  fue.* 

Ger.  Lib.  , canto  xvi.-lxix. 

The  clubs  are  noisy  with  clamorous  frenzy ; the  leaders 
are  grim  with  schemes.  Black  Henriot  flies  here  and  there, 
muttering  to  his  armed  troops — “ Robespierre,  your  beloved 
is  in  danger ! ” Robespierre  stalks  perturbed,  his  list  of 
victims  swelling  every  hour.  Tallien,  the  Macduff  to  the 
doomed  Macbeth,  is  whispering  courage  to  his  pale  conspir- 
ators. Along  the  streets  heavily  roll  the  tumbrils.  The 

* Darkness  greater  than  of  night,  in  which  not  a ray  of  light  is  mixed  ; . . . . 
The  palace  appears  no  more— not  ^yen  a vestige — nor  can  one  say  that  it  has  been 


322 


ZANONI, 


shops  are  closed — the  people  are  gorged  with  gore  and  wih 
lap  no  more.  And  night  after  night,  to  the  eighty  theaters 
flock  the  children  of  the  Revolution,  to  laugh  at  the  quips  of 
comedy,  and  weep  gentle  tears  over  imaginary  woes  ! 

In  a small  chamber,  in  the  heart  of  the  city,  sits  the  mother 
watching  over  her  child  ! It  is  quiet,  happy  noon  ; the  sun- 
light, broken  by  the  tall  roofs  in  the  narrow  street,  comes  yet 
through  the  open  casement,  the  impartial  play-fellow  of  the 
air,  gleesome  alike  in  temple  and  prison,  hall  and  hovel ; as 
golden  and  as  blithe,  whether  it  laugh  over  the  first  hour  of 
life,  or  quiver  in  its  gay  delight  on  the  terror  and  agony  of 
the  last ! The  child,  where  it  lay  at  the  feet  of  Viola,  stretched 
out  its  dimpled  hands  as  if  to  clasp  the  dancing  motes  that 
reveled  in  the  beam.  The  mother  turned  her  eyes  from  the 
glory ; it  saddened  her  yet  more. — She  turned  and  sighed. 

Is  this  the  same  Viola  who  bloomed  fairer  than  their  own 
Idalih  under  the  skies  of  Greece  ? How  changed  ! How 
pale  and  worn  ! She  sat  listlessly,  her  arms  drooping  on  her 
knee  ; the  smile  that  was  habitual  to  her  lips  was  gone.  A 
heavy,  dull  despondency,  as  if  the  life  of  life  were  no  more, 
seemed  to  weigh  down  her  youth,  and  make  it  weary  of  that 
happy  sun ! In  truth,  her  existence  had  languished  away 
since  it  had  wandered,  as  some  melancholy  stream,  from  the 
source  that  fed  it.  The  sudden  enthusiasm  of  fear  or  super- 
stition that  had  almost,  as  if  still  in  the  unconscious  move- 
ments of  a dream,  led  her  to  fly  from  Zanoni,  had  ceased  from 
the  day  which  dawned  upon  her  in  a foreign  land.  Then — 
there — she  felt  that  in  the  smile  she  had  evermore  abandoned 
lived  her  life.  She  did  not  repent — she  would  not  have  re- 
called the  impulse  that  winged  her  flight.  Though  the  enthu- 
siasm was  gone,  the  superstition  yet  remained  ; she  still  believ- 
ed she  had  saved  her  child  from  that  dark  and  guilty  sorcery, 
concerning  which  the  traditions  of  all  lands  are  prodigal,  but 
in  none  do  they  find  such  credulity,  or  excite  such  dread,  as 
in  the  south  of  Italy.  This  impression  was  confirmed  by  the 
mysterious  conversations  of  Glyndon,  and  by  her  own  percep- 
tion of  the  fearful  change  that  had  passed  over  one  who  rep- 
resented himself  as  the  victim  of  the  enchanters.  She  did 
not,  therefore,  repent — but  her  very  volition  seemed  gone. 

On  their  arrival  at  Paris,  Viola  saw  her  companion — -the 
faithful  wife — no  more.  Ere  three  weeks  were  passed,  hus- 
band and  wife  had  ceased  to  live. 

And  now,  for  the  first  time,  the  drudgeries  of  this  hard 
*‘arth  claimed  the  beautiful  Neapolitan,  In  that  profession, 


ZANOm. 


m 


giving  voice  and  shape  to  poetry  and  song,  m which  her  first 
years  were  passed,  there  is,  while  it  lasts,  an  excitement  in 
the  art  that  lifts  it  from  the  labor  of  a calling.  Hovering 
between  two  lives,  the  Real  and  Ideal,  dwells  the  life  of 
music  and  the  stage.  But  that  life  was  lost  evermore  to  the 
idol  of  the  ears  of  Naples.  Lifted  to  the  higher  realm  of  pas- 
sionate love,  it  seemed  as  if  the  fictitious  genius  which  repre- 
sents the  thoughts  of  others  was  merged  in  the  genius  that 
grows  all  thought  itself.  It  had  been  the  worst  infidelity  to 
the  Lost,  to  have  descended  again  to  live  on  the  applause  of 
others.  And  so — for  she  would  not  accept  alms  from  Glyndon 
— so,  by  the  commonest  arts,  the  humblest  industry  which  the 
sex  knows,  alone  and  unseen,  she,  who  had  slept  on  the  breast 
of  Zanoni,  found  a shelter  for  their  child.  As  when,  in  the 
noble  verse  prefixed  to  this  chapter,  Armida  herself  has  de- 
stroyed her  enchanted  palace, — not  a vestige  of  that  bower, 
raised  of  old  by  Poetry  and  Love,  remained  to  say  “ it  had 
been ! 

And  the  child  avenged  the  father  : it  bloomed—it  thrived — 
it  waxed  strong  in  the  light  of  life.  But  still  it  seemed  haunt- 
ed and  preserved  by  some  other  being  than  her  own.  In  its 
sleep  there  was  that  slumber,  so  deep  and  rigid,  which  a 
thunderbolt  could  not  have  disturbed  ; and  in  such  sleep  often 
it  moved  its  arms,  as  to  embrace  the  air  often  its  iips  stirred 
with  murmured  sounds  of  indistinct  affection — not  for  her  ; 
and  all  the  while  upon  its  cheeks  a hue  of  such  celestial 
bloom— upon  its  lips,  a smile  of  such  mysterious  joy  ! Then 
when  it  waked,  its  eyes  did  not  turn  first  to  her — wistful,  earn» 
est,  wandering,  they  roved  around,  to  fix  on  her  pale  face, 
at  last,  in  mute  sorrow  and  reproach. 

Never  had  Viola  felt  before  how  mighty  was  her  love  for 
Zanoni ; how  thought,  feeling,  heart,  soul,  life — all  lay  crush- 
ed and  dormant  in  the  icy  absence  to  which  she  had  doomed 
herself  ! She  heard  not  the  roar  without,  she  felt  not  one 
amid  those  stormy  millions, — worlds  of  excitement  laboring 
through  every  hour.  Only  when  Glyndon,  haggard,  wan,  and 
specter-like,  glided  in,  day  after  day,  to  visit  her,  did  the  fair 
daughter  of  the  careless  South  know  how  heavy  and  univen 
sal  was  the  Death-Air  that  girt  her  round.  Sublime  in  her 
passive  unconsciousness — her  mechanic  life — she  sat,  and 
feared  not,  in  the  den  of  the  Beasts  of  Prey  ! 

The  door  of  the  room  opened  abruptly,  and  Glyndon  enter- 
ed. His  manner  was  more  agitated  than  usual. 


324 


ZANONL 


*•  Is  it  you,  Clarence  ? ” she  said,  in  her  soft,  languid  tonc» 
“ You  are  before  the  hour  I expected  you.*' 

“ Who  can  count  on  his  hours  at  Paris  ? ’*  returned  Glyndon 
with  a frightful  smile.  “ Is  it  not  enough  that  I am  here  ? 
Your  apathy  in  the  midst  of  these  sorrows  appals  me.  You 
say  caimly,  ‘Farewell!* — calmly  you  bid  me  ‘Welcome!’ — 
as  if  in  every  corner  there  was  not  a spy,  and  as  if  with  every 
day  there  was  not  a massacre ! ** 

“ Pardon  me  ! But  in  these  walls  lies  my  world.  I can 
hardly  credit  all  the  tales  you  tell  me.  Everything  here  save 
that  (and  she  pointed  to  the  infant)  seems  already  so  lifeless, 
that  in  the  tomb  itself  one  could  scarcely  less  heed  the  crimes 
that  aie  done  without.** 

Glyndon  paused  for  a few  moments,  and  gazed  with 
6trange  and  mingled  feelings  upon  that  face  and  form,  still 
50  young,  and  yet  so  invested  with  that  saddest  of  all  repose, 
— when  the  heart  feels  old. 

“ O Viola  ! ” said  he,  at  last,  and  in  a voice  of  suppressed 
passion  ; “ was  it  thus  I ever  thought  to  see  you — ever  thought 
to  feel  for  you,  when  we  two  first  met  in  the  gay  haunts  of 
Naples  ? Ah  ! why  then  did  you  refuse  my  love  ? — or  why 
was  mine  pot  worthy  of  you  ? Nay,  shrink  not  I — let  me  touch 
your  hand.  No  passion  so  sweet  as  that  youthful  love  can 
return  to  me  again.  I feel  for  you  but  as  a brother  for  some 
younger  and  lonely  sister.  With  you,  in  your  presence,  sad 
though  it  be,  I seem  to  breathe  back  the  purer  air  of  my 
early  life.  Here  alone,  except  in  scenes  df  turbulence  and 
tempest,  the  Phantom  ceases  to  pursue  me.  I forget  even 
the  Death  that  stalks  behind,  and  haunts  me  as  my  shadow. 
But  better  days  may  be  in  store  for  us  yet.  Viola,  I at  last 
begin  dimly  to  perceive  how  to  baffle  and  subdue  the  Phan- 
tom that  has  cursed  my  life — it  is  to  brave,  and  defy  it.  In 
sin  and  in  riot,  as  I have  told  thee,  it  haunts  me  not.  But  I 
comprehend  now  what  Mejnour  said  in  his  dark  apothegms, 
‘ that  I should  dread  the  specter  most  unseen.'  In  vii> 

tuous  and  calm  resolution  it  appears — ay,  I behold  it  now — ' 
there — there  with  its  livid  eyes ! (and  the  drops  fell  from  his 
brow).  But  it  shall  no  longer  daunt  me  from  that  resolution. 
I face  it,  and  it  gradually  darkens  back  into  the  shade.”  He 
paused, — and  his  eyes  dwelt  with  terrible  exultation  upon  the 
sun- lit  space  ; then  with  a heavy  and  deep  drawn  breath,  he 
resumed — “ Viola,  I have  found  the  means  of  escape.  We 
will  leave  this  city.  In  some  other  land  we  will  endeavor  to 
comfort  each  other,  and  forget  the  past.” 


ZANONL 


325 

No,”  said  Viola  calmly;  ‘‘  I have  no  further  wish  to  stir, 
till  I am  borne  hence  to  the  last  resting-place.  I dreamed  of 
him  last  night,  Clarence ! — dreamed  of  him  for  the  first  time 
since  we  parted  : and,  do  not  mock  me,  methought  that  he  for- 
gave the  deserter,  and  called  me  ‘ Wife.’  That  dream  hallow's 
the  room.  Perhaps  it  will  visit  me  again  before  I die.” 
“Talk  not  of  him — of  the  demi-fiend ! ” cried  Glyndon, 
fiercely,  and  stamping  his  foot.  “Thank  the  Heavens  for 
any  fate  that  hath  rescued  thee  from  him.” 

“ Hush  ! ” said  Viola,  gravely.  And  as  she  was  about  to 
proceed  her  eye  fell  upon  the  child.  It  was  standing  in  the 
very  center  of  that  slanting  column  of  light  which  the  sun 
poured  into  the  chamber ; and  the  rays  seemed  to  surround  it 
as  a halo,  and  settled,  crown-like,  on  the  gold  of  its  shining 
hair.  In  its  small  shape,  so  exquisitely  modeled — in  its 
large,  steady,  tranquil  eyes,  there  was  something  that  awed, 
while  it  charmed  the  mother’s  pride.  It  gazed  on  Glyndon  as 
he  spoke,  with  a look  which  almost  might  have  seemed  dis- 
dain, and  which  Viola,  at  least,  interpreted  as  a defense  of. 
the  Absent,  stronger  than  her  own  lips  could  frame, 

Glyndon  broke  the  pause. 

“Thou  wouldst  stay — for  what?  To  betray  a mother’s 
duty  ! If  an  evil  happen  to  thee  here,  what  becomes  of  thine 
infant } — Shall  it  be  brought  up  an  orphan,  in  a country  that 
has  desecrated  thy  religion,  and  where  human  charity  exists 
no  more  ! Ah,  weep,  and  clasp  it  to  thy  bosom  ! But  tears 
do  not  protect  and  save.” 

“Thou  hast  conquered,  my  friend — I will  fly  with  thee.” 
“To-morrow  night,  then,  be  prepared.  I will  bring  thee 
the  necessary  disguises.” 

And  Glyndon  then  proceeded  to  sketch  rapidly  the  outline 
of  the  path  they  were  to  take,  and  the  story  they  were  to  tell. 
Viola  listened,  but  scarcely  comprehended ; he  pressed  her 
hand  to  his  heart  and  departed. 


326 


ZANONL 


CHAPTER  V. 

van  seco  pur  ancc 

Sdegno  ed  Amor,  quasi  due  Veltri  ai  fianco  • 

Ger.  Lib.,  cant,  xx.  cxviL 

Glyndon  did  not  perceive,  as  he  hurried  from  the  house, 
two  forms  crouching  by  the  angle  of  the  wall.  He  saw  still 
the  specter  gliding  by  his  side,  but  he  beheld  not  the  yet  more 
poisonous  eyes  of  human  envy  and  woman’s  jealousy  that 
glared  on  his  retreating  footsteps. 

Nicot  advanced  to  the  house : Fillide  followed  him  in 
silence.  The  Painter,  an  old  sans-culotte^  knew  well  what  lan- 
guage to  assume  to  the  porter,  He  beckoned  the  latter  from 
his  lodge — “ How  is  this,  Citizen  ? Thou  harborest  a ‘ sus-‘ 

“ Citizen,  you  terrify  me  ! — if  so,  name  him.” 

“ It  is  not  a man ; a refugee — an  Italian  woman  lodges 
here.” 

‘‘Yes,  au  troisieme—th.Q  door  to  the  left.  But  what  of  her? 
— she  cannot  be  dangerous,  poor  child  ! ” 

“ Citizen,  beware  ! Dost  thou  dare  to  pity  her  ? ” 

“ I ? No,  no,  indeed.  But ” 

“ Speak  the  truth  ! Who  visits  her  ? ” 

“ No  one  but  an  Englishman.” 

“ That  is  it — an  Englishman,  spy  of  Pitt  and  Coburg.” 

“ Just  Heaven  ! — is  it  possible  ? ” 

“ How,  Citizen  ! dost  thou  speak  of  Heaven  ? Thou  must 
be  an  aristocrat ! ” 

“No,  indeed;  it  was  but  an  old  bad  habit,  and  escaped 
me  unawares.” 

“ How  often  does  the  Englishman  visit  her  ? ” 

“ Daily.” 

Fillide  uttered  an  exclamation. 

“ She  never  stirs  out,”  said  the  porter.  “ Her  sole  occupa- 
tions are  in  work,  and  care  of  her  infant.” 

“ Her  infant ! ” 

Fillide  made  a bound  forward.  Nicot  in  vain  endeavored 
to  arrest  her.  She  sprung  up  the  stairs ; she  paused  not  till 
she  was  before  the  door  indicated  by  the  porter;  it  stood  ajai 

*Tberg  west  Witb  bim  stit  Disdam  aa4  Love,  like  two  greyhouiuis  side  by  side/ 


ZANONI. 


327 


— she  entered — she  stood  at  the  threshold,  and  beheld  that 
face,  still  so  lovely ! The  sight  of  so  much  beauty  left  her 
hopeless.  And  the  child,  over  whom  the  mother  bent ! — she 
who  had  never  been  a mother  ! — she  uttered  no  sound — the 
furies  were  at  work  within  h^r  breast.  Viola  turned,  and  saw 
her;  and,  terrified  by  the  strange  apparition,  with  features 
that  expressed  the  deadliest  hate  and  scorn,  and  vengeance, 
uttered  a cry,  and  snatched  the  child  to  her  bosom.  The 
Italian  laughed  aloud — turned,  descended,  and  gaining  the 
spot  where  Nicot  still  conversed  with  the  frightened  porter, 
drew  him  from  the  house.  When  they  were  in  the  open  street, 
she  halted  abruptly,  and  said,  “ Avenge  me,  and  name  thy 
price ! ” 

“ My  price,  sweet  one ! is  but  permission  to  love  thee. 
Thou  wilt  fly  with  me  to-morrow  night ; thou  wilt  possess  thy- 
self of  the  passports  and  the  plan.” 

“And  they ” 

“ Shall,  before  then,  find  their  asylum  in  the  Conciergerie. 
The  guillotine  shall  requite  thy  wrongs.” 

“ Do  this,  and  I am  satisfied,”  said  Fillide,  firmly. 

And  they  spoke  no  more  till  they  regained  the  house.  But 
when  she  there,  looking  up  to  the  dull  building,  saw  the  win- 
dows of  the  room  which  the  belief  of  Glyndon’s  love  had  once 
made  a paradise,  the  tiger  relented  at  the  heart ; something 
of  the  woman  gushed  back  upon  her  nature,  dark  and  savage 
as  it  was.  She  pressed  the  arm  on  which  she  leaned  convul- 
sively, and  exclaimed — “ No,  no  ! — not  him  ! denounce  her — 
let  her  perish  : but  I have  slept  on  his  bosom — not  him  /” 

“ It  shall  be  as  thou  wilt,”  said  Nicot,  with  a devil’s  sneer; 
“ but  he  must  be  arrested  for  the  moment.  No  harm  shall 
happen  to  him,  for  no  accuser  shall  appear.  But  her — thou 
wilt  not  relent  for  her  ? ” 

Fillide  turned  upon  him  her  eyes,  and  their  dark  glance  was 
#uffici‘5nt  answer 


ZANOm, 


328 


CHAPTER  VI. 

In  poppa  quella 

Che  guidar  gli  dovea,  fatal  Donsella.* 

Ger.  Lib.,  cant.  xv.  3. 

The  Italian  did  not  overrate  that  craft  of  simulatior.  pro- 
verbial with  her  country  and  her  sex.  Not  a word,  not  a 
look,  that  day  revealed  to  Glyndon  the  deadly  change  that 
had  converted  devotion  into  hate.  He  himself,  indeed, 
absorbed  in  his  own  schemes,  and  in  reflections  on  his  own 
strange  destiny,  was  no  nice  observer.  But  her  manner, 
milder  and  more  subdued  than  usual,  produced  a softening 
effect  upon  his  meditations  toward  the  evening ; and  he  then 
began  to  converse  with  her  on  the  certain  hope  of  escape, 
and  on  the  future  that  would  await  them  in  less  unhallowed 
lands. 

And  thy  fair  friend,”  said  Fillide,  with  an  averted  eye 
and  a false  smile,  “ who  was  to  be  our  companion.  Thou 
hast  resigned  her,  Nicot  tells  me,  in  favor  of  one  in  whom  he 
is  interested.  Is  it  so  ? ” 

“ He  told  thee  this ! ” returned  Glyndon,  evasively. 

Well ! does  the  change  content  thee  ? ” 

“ Traitor  ! ” muttered  Fillide  ; and  she  rose  suddenly, 
approached  him,  parted  the  long  hair  from  his  forehead, 
caressingly,  and  pressed  her  lips  convulsively  on  his  brow. 

“ This  were  too  fair  a head  for  the  doomsman,”  said  she, 
with  a slight  laugh,  and  turning  away,  appeared  occupied  in 
preparations  for  their  departure. 

The  next  morning,  when  he  rose,  Glyndon  did  not  see  the 
Italian  ; she  was  absent  from  the  house  when  he  left  it.  It 

was  necessary  that  he  should  once  more  visit  C before 

his  final  departure,  not  only  to  arrange  for  Nicot’s  participa- 
tion in  the  flight,  but  lest  any  suspicion  should  have  arisen  to 

thwart  or  endanger  the  plan  he  had  adopted.  C , though 

not  one  of  the  immediate  coterie  of  Robespierre,  and  indeed 
secretly  hostile  to  him,  had  possessed  the  art  of  keeping  well 
with  each  faction  as  it  rose  to  power.  Sprung  from  the  dregs 
of  the  populace,  he  had,  nevertheless,  the  grace  and  vivacity 
so  often  found  impartially  among  every  class  in  France.  He 
had  contrived  to  enrich  himself^none  knew  bow — in  th© 


* By  ;prow  was  tbs  fats?.  Ia4y  Qtisklned  be  tbe 


ZANONL 


329 

course  of  his  rapid  career.  He  became,  indeed,  ultimately 
one  of  the  wealthiest  proprietors  of  Paris,  and  at  that  time  kept 
a splendid  and  hospitable  mansion.  He  was  one  of  those 
whom,  from  various  reasons,  Robespierre  deigned  to  favor ; 
and  he  had  often  saved  the  proscribed  and  suspected,  by  pro- 
curing them  passports  under  disguised  names,  and  advising 

their  method  of  escape.  But  C was  a man  who  took  this 

trouble  only  for  the  rich.  “ The  incorruptible  Maximilien,” 
who  did  not  want  the  tyrant’s  faculty  of  penetration,  probably 
saw  through  all  his  maneuvers,  and  the  avarice  which  he 
cloaked  beneath  his  charity.  But  it  was  noticeable,  that 
Robespierre  frequently  seemed  to  wink  at — nay,  partially  to 
encourage — such  vices  in  men  whom  he  meant  hereafter  to 
destroy,  as  would  tend  to  lower  them  in  the  public  estimation, 
and  to  contrast  with  his  own  austere  and  unassailable  integ- 
rity and  purism.  And,  doubtless,  he  often  grimly  smiled  in 
his  sleeve  at  the  sumptuous  mansion,  and  the  griping  covet- 
ousness of  the  worthy  citizen  C . 

To  this  personage,  then,  Glyndon  musingly  bent  his  way.  It 
was  true,  as  he  had  darkly  said  to  Viola,  that  in  proportion  as 
he  had  resisted  the  specter,  its  terrors  had  lost  their  influence. 
The  time  had  come  at  last,  when,  seeing  crime  and  vice  in 
all  the  hideousness,  and  in  so  vast  a theater,  he  had  found 
that  in  vice  and  crime  there  are  deadlier  horrors  than  in  the 
eyes  of  a phantom-fear.  His  native  nobleness  began  to  return 
to  him.  As  he  passed  the  streets,  he  revolved  in  his  mind 
projects  of  future  repentance  and  reformation.  He  even 
meditated,  as  a just  return  for  Fillide’s  devotion,  the  sacrifice 
of  all  the  reasonings  of  his  birth  and  education.  He  would 
repair  whatever  errors  he  had  committed  against  her,  by  the 
self-immolation  of  marriage  with  one  little  congenial  with  him- 
self. He  who  had  once  revolted  from  marriage  with  the  noble 
and  gentle  Viola  ! — he  had  learned  in  that  world  of  wrong  to 
know  that  right  is  right,  and  that  Heaven  did  not  make  the 
one  sex  to  be  the  victim  of  the  other.  The  young  visions  of 
the  Beautiful  and  the  Good  rose  once  more  before  him : and 
along  the  dark  ocean  of  his  mind  lay  the  smile  of  re-awaken- 
ing virtue,  as  a path  of  moon-light.  Never,  perhaps,  had  the 
condition  of  his  soul  been  so  elevated  and  unselfish. 

In  the  meanwhile,  Jean  Nicot,  equally  absorbed  in  dreams 
of  the  future,  and  already  in  his  own  mind  laying  out  to  the 
best  advantage  the  gold  of  the  friend  he  was  about  to  betray^ 
took  his  way  to  the  house  honored  by  the  residervce  of  Robes- 
pierre. He  had  no  intention  to  comply  with  the  relenting  prayei 


330 


ZANONI, 


of  Fillide,  that  the  life  of  Glyndon  should  be  spared.  He  thought 
with  Barrere,“  il  ri’y  a que  les  marts  qui  ne  revient pas^  In  ail 
men  who  have  devoted  themselves  to  any  study,  or  any  art, 
with  sufficient  pains  to  attain  a certain  degree  of  excellence, 
there  must  be  a fund  of  energy  immeasurably  above  that  of 
the  ordinary  herd.  Usually,  this  energy  is  concentered  on  the 
objects  of  their  professional  ambition,  and  leaves  them,  there- 
fore, apathetic  to  the  other  pursuits  of  men.  But  where  those 
objects  are  denied,  where  the  stream  has  not  its  legitimate 
vent,  the  energy,  irritated  and  aroused,  possesses  the  whole 
being,  and  if  not  wasted  on  desultory  schemes,  or  if  not  puri- 
fied by  conscience  and  principle,  becomes  a dangerous  and  de- 
structive element  in  the  social  system,  through  which  it  wan- 
ders in  riot  and  disorder.  Hence,  in  all  wise  monarchies — nay, 
in  all  well-constituted  states,  the  peculiar  care  with  which  chan- 
nels are  opened  for  every  art  and  every  science ; hence  the 
honor  paid  to  their  cultivators  by  subtle  and  thoughtful  states- 
men, who,  perhaps,  for  themselves,  see  nothing  in  a picture 
but  colored  canvas — nothing  in  a problem  but  an  ingenious 
puzzle.  No  state  is  ever  more  in  danger  than  when  the  tal- 
ent that  should  be  consecrated  to  peace,  has  no  occupation 
but  political  intrigue  or  personal  advancement.  Talent  unhon- 
ored is  talent  at  war  with  men.  And  here  it  is  noticeable, 
that  the  class  of  Actors,  having  been  the  most  degraded  by 
the  public  opinion  of  the  old  regime,  their  very  dust  deprived 
of  Christian  burial,  no  men  (with  certain  exceptions  in  the 
company  especially  favored  by  the  Court)  were  more  relentless 
and  revengeful  among  the  scourges  of  the  revolution.  In 
the  savage  Collot  d’Herbois,  mauvais  comedien,  were  embodied 
the  wrongs  and  the  vengeance  of  a class. 

Now  the  energy  of  Jean  Nicot  had  never  been  sufficiently 
directed  to  the  Art  he  professed.  Even  in  his  earliest  youth, 
the  political  disquisitions  of  his  master,  David,  had  dis- 
tracted him  from  the  more  tedious  labors  of  the  easel.  The 
defects  of  his  person  had  embittered  his  mind ; the  Atheism 
of  his  benefactor  had  deadened  his  conscience.  For  one 
great  excellence  of  Religion — above  all,  the  Religion  of  the 
Cross — is,  that  it  raises  Patience  first  into  a Virtue,  and  next 
into  a Hope.  Take  away  the  doctrine  of  another  life,  of 
requital  hereafter,  of  the  smile  of  a Father  upon  our  suffer- 
ings and  trials  in  our  ordeal  here,  and  what  becomes  of 
Patience  ? But  without  patience,  what  is  man  ? — aud  what  a 
people  ? Without  patience.  Art  never  can  be  high  ; without  pa- 
tience, liberty  never  can  be  perfected.  By  wild  throes,  and 


ZAATOm. 


331 


Impetuous,  aimless  struggles,  Intellect  seeks  to  soar  from 
Penury,  and  a nation  to  struggle  into  Freedom.  And  woe,  thus 
unfortified,  guideless,  and  unenduring — woe  to  both  ! 

Nicot  was  a villain  as  a boy.  In  most  criminals,  howevei 
abandoned,  there  are  touches  of  humanity — relics  of  virtue  ; 
and  the  true  delineator  of  mankind  often  incurs  the  taunt  of 
bad  hearts  and  dull  minds,  for  showing  that  even  the  worst 
alloy  has  some  particles  of  gold,  and  even  the  best  that  come 
stamped  from  the  mind  of  Nature,  have  some  adulteration  of 
the  dross.  But  there  are  exceptions,  though  few,  to  the 
general  rule ; exceptions,  when  the  conscience  lies  utterly 
dead,  and  when  good  or  bad  are  things  indiiferent  but  as 
means  to  some  selfish  end.  So  was  it  with  the  protege  of  the 
atheist.  Erivy  and  hate  filled  up  his  whole  being,  and  the 
consciousness  of  superior  talent  only  made  him  curse  the 
more  all  who  passed  him  in  the  sunlight  with  a fairer  form  or 
happier  fortunes.  But  monster  though  he  was,  when  his 
murderous  fingers  griped  the  throat  of  his  benefactor.  Time, 
and  that  ferment  of  all  evil  passions — the  Reign  of  Blood, 
had  made  in  the  deep  hell  of  his  heart  a deeper  still.  Unable 
to  exercise  his  calling  (for  even  had  he  dared  to  make  his 
name  prominent,  revolutions  are  no  season  for  painters ; and 
no  man — no  ! not  the  richest  and  proudest  magnate  of  the 
land,  has  so  great  an  interest  in  peace  and  order,  has  so  high 
and  essential  a stake  in  the  well-being  of  society,  as  the  poet 
and  the  artist), — his  whole  intellect,  ever  restless  and  unguided, 
was  left  to  ponder  over  the  images  of  guilt  most  congenial  to 
it.  He  had  no  Future  but  in  this  life ; and  how  in  this 
life  had  the  men  of  power  around  him,  the  great  wrestlers 
for  dominion,  thriven  ? All  that  was  good,  pure,  unselfish 
— whether  among  Royalists  or  Republicans— swept  to  the 
shambles,  and  the  deathsmen  left  alone  in  the  pomp 
and  purple  of  their  victims  ! Nobler  paupers  than  Jean 
Nicot  would  despair ; and  Poverty  would  rise  in  its  ghastly 
multitudes  to  cut  the  throat  of  Wealth,  and  then  gash 
itself  limb  by  limb,  if  Patience,  the  Angel  of  the  Poor,  sat 
not  by  its  side,  pointing  with  solemn  finger  to  the  life  to  come  ! 
And  now  as  Nicot  neared  the  house  of  the  Dictator,  he  began 
to  meditate  a reversal  of  his  plans  of  the  previous  day : not 
that  he  faltered  in  his  resolution  to  denounce  Glyndon,  and 
Viola  would  necessarily  share  his  fate,  as  a companion  and 
accomplice,— no,  there  he  was  resolved ! for  he  hated  both — (to 
say  nothing  of  his  old,  but  never  to  be  forgotten  grudge 
against  Zanoni) — ^Viola  had  scorned  him,  Glyndon  had  served, 


/ 


332 


ZANOm, 


and  the  thought  of  gratitude  was  as  intolerable  to  him  as  the 
memory  of  insult.  But  why,  now,  should  he  fly  from  France  ? 
— he  could  possess  himself  of  Glyndon’s  gold — he  doubted 
not  that  he  could  so  master  Fillide  by  her  wrath  and  jealousy 
that  he  could  command  her  acquiescence  in  all  he  proposed. 
The  papers  he  had  purloined — Desmoulin’s  correspondence 
with  Glyndon— while  it  insured  the  fate  of  the  latter,  might 
be  eminently  serviceable  to  Robespierre,  might  induce  the 
tyrant  to  forget  his  own  old  liaisons  with  Hebert,  and  enlist 
him  among  the  allies  and  tools  of  the  King  of  Terror.  Hopes 
of  advancement,  of  wealth,  of  a career,  again  rose  before 
him.  This  correspondence,  dated  shortly  before  Camille 
Desmoulin’s  death,  was  written  with  that  careless  and  daring 
imprudence  which  characterized  the  spoiled  child  of  Danton. 
It  spoke  openly  of  designs  against  Robespierre ; it  named 
confederates  whom  the  tyrant  desired  only  a popular  pretext 
to  crush.  It  was  a new  instrument  of  death  in  the  hands  of 
the  Death-compeller.  What  greater  gift  could  he  bestow  on 
Maximilien  the  Incorruptible  ? 

Nursing  these  thoughts,  he  arrived  at  last  before  the  door 
of  Citizen  Dupleix.  Around  the  threshold  were  grouped,  in 
admired  confusion,  some  eight  or  ten  sturdy  Jacobins,  the 
voluntary  body-guard  of  Robespierre — tall  fellows,  well 
armed,  and  insolent  with  the  power  that  reflects  power,  min- 
gled with  women,  young  and  fair,  and  gayly  dressed,  who  had 
came,  upon  the  rumor  that  Maximilien  had  had  an  attack  of 
bile,  to  inquire  tenderly  of  his  health ; for  Robespierre, 
strange  though  it  seem,  was  the  idol  of  the  sex  ! 

Through  this  cortege^  stationed  without  the  door,  and 
reaching  up  the  stairs  to  the  landing-place,  for  Robespierre’s 
apartments  were  not  Spacious  enough  to  afford  sufficient 
antechamber  for  levees  so  numerous  and  miscellaneous,  Nicot 
forced  his  way ; and  far  from  friendly  or  flattering  were  the 
expressions  that  regaled  his  ears- 

Aha ^le  joli  Polichinelle  said  a comely  matron,  whose 

robe  his  obtrusive  and  angular  elbows  cruelly  discomposed. 
“ But  how  could  one  expect  gallantry  from  such  a scares 
crow ! ” 

“ Citizen,  I beg  to  avise  thee  * that  thou  art  treading  on 

♦ The  courteous  use  of  the  plural  was  proscribed  at  Paris.  The  Societes populaires 
had  decided  that  whoever  used  it  should  be  prosecuted  as  suspect  et  adulateur  / 
At  the  door  of  the  public  administrations  and  popular  societies  was  written  up— 
“ Ici  on  s’honore  du  Citoyen,  et  on  se  lutoye  ” / / /(a)  Take  away  Murder  from  the 
French  Revolution,  and  it  becomes  the  greatest  iFarce  ever  played  before  the 
Angels ! 

la)  “ Here  they  respect  the  title  of  Citizen,  and  they  t^ee  and  thou  one  another  ’’ 


ZANOm, 


333 


my-  feet.  I beg  thy  pardon,  but  now  I look  at  thine,  I see  the 
hall  is  not  wide  enough  for  them.” 

“ Ho  ! Citizen  Nicot,”  cried  a Jacobin,  shouldering  his  for- 
midable bludgeon,  “ and  what  brings  thee  hither  ? — thinkest 
thou  that  Hebert’s  crimes  are  forgotten  already  ? Off,  sport 
of  Nature  ! and  thank  the  Bfre  Supreme  ^2X  he  made  thee  in- 
significant enough  to  be  forgiven.” 

“Afpretty  face  to  look  out  of  the  National  Window,”* 
said  the  woman  whose  robe  the  painter  had  ruffled. 

“ Citizens,”  said  Nicot,  white  with  passion,  but  constrain- 
ing himself  so  that  his  words  seemed  to  come  from  grinded 
teeth,  “ I have  the  honor  to  inform  you  that  I seek  the  Rep- 
resentant  upon  business  of  the  utmost  importance  to  the  pub- 
lic and  himself ; and,”  he  added,  slowly,  and  malignantly, 
glaring  round,  “ I call  all  good  citizens  to  be  my  witnesses 
when  I shall  complain  to  Robespierre  of  the  reception  be- 
stowed on  me  by  some  among  you.” 

There  was  in  the  man’s  look  and  his  tone  of  voice  so  much 
of  deep  and  concentrated  malignity,  that  the  idlers  drew  back  ; 
and  as  the  remembrance  of  the  sudden  ups  and  downs  of  rev- 
olutionary life  occurred  to  them,  several  voices  were  lifted  to 
assure  the  squalid  and  ragged  painter  that  nothing  was  far- 
ther from  their  thoughts  than  to  offer  affront  to  a citizen, 
whose  very  appearance  proved  him  to  be  an  exemplary  sans- 
culotte. Nicot  received  these  apologies  in  sullen  silence  ; 
and  folding  his  arms,  leaned  against  the  wall,  waiting  in  grim 
patience  for  his  admission. 

The  loiterers  talked  to  each  other  in  separate  knots  of  two 
and  three  ; and  through  the  general  hum  rang  the  clear,  loud, 
careless  whistle  of  the  tall  Jacobin  who  stood  guard  by  the 
stairs.  Next  to  Nicot,  an  old  woman  and  a young  virgin 
were  muttering  in  earnest  whispers,  and  the  atheist  painter 
chuckled  inly  to  overhear  their  discourse. 

“ I assure  thee,  my  dear,”  said  the  crone,  with  a mysterious 
shake  of  head,  “ that  the  divine  Catherine  Theot,  whom  the 
impious  now  persecute,  is  really  inspired.  There  can  be  no 
doubt  that  the  elect,  of  whom  Dom  Gerle  and  the  virtuous 
Robespierre  are  destined  to  be  the  two  grand  prophets,  will 
enjoy  eternal  life  here,  and  exterminate  all  their  enemies. 
There  is  no  doubt  of  it — not  the  least ! ” 

How  delightful ! ” said  the  girl ; “ ce  cher  Robespierre  ! — 
he  does  not  look  very  long-lived  either  ! ” 

“ The  greater  the  miracle,”  said  the  old  woman.  “ I am 

* The  guillotine. 


330 


ZANONI, 


just  eighty-one,  and  I don’t  feel  a day  older  since  Catherine 
Theot  promised  me  I should  be  one  of  the  elect ! ” 

Here  the  women  were  jostled  aside  by  some  new  comers,  ’ 
who  talked  loudly  and  eagerly. 

“ Yes,”  cried  a brawny  man  whose  garb  denoted  him  to  ba 
a butcher,  with  bare  arms,  and  a cap  of  liberty  on  his  head, 

“ I am  come  to  warn  Robespierre.  They  lay  a snare  for  him  ; 
they  offer  him  the  Palais  National.  On  ne pent  tire  ami  du 
peuple  et  haliter  un  palais P* 

“ No,  indeed,”  answered  a cordonnier  ; “ I like  him  best  in 
his  little  lodging  with  the  menuisier : it  looks  like  one  of  mP 

Another  rush  of  the  crowd,  and  a new  group  were  thrown 
forward  in  the  vicinity  of  Nicot.  And  these  men  gabbled 
and  chattered  faster  and  louder  than  the  rest. 

“ But  my  plan  is ” 

“ All  diable  with  your  plan.  I tell  you  my  scheme  is ” 

“ Nonsense  ! ” cried  a third.  When  Robespierre  under- 
stands my  new  method  of  making  gunpowder,  the  enemies 
of  France  shall ” 

“ Bah  ! who  fears  foreign  enemies  ! ” interrupted  a fourth ; 

“ the  enemies  to  be  feared  are  at  home.  My  new  guillotine 
takes  off  fifty  heads  at  a time  ! ” 

“ But  my  new  Constitution  ! ” exclaimed  a fifth. 

“J/ynew  Religion,  citizen!”  murmured,  complacently,  a 
sixth. 

“ Sacre  milk  tonnerres,  silence  1 ” roared  forth  one  of  the 
Jacobin  guard. 

And  the  crowd  suddenly  parted  as  a fierce-looking  man, 
buttoned  up  to  the  chin — his  sword  rattling  by  his  side,  his 
spurs  clinking  at  his  heel — descended  the  stairs ; his  cheeks 
swollen  and  purple  with  intemperance,  his  eyes  dead  and  sav- 
age as  a vulture’s.  There  was  a still  pause,  as  all,  with  pale 
cheeks,  made  way  for  the  relentless  Henriot.f  Scarce  had 
this  gruff  and  iron  minion  of  the  tyrant  stalked  through  the 
throng,  when  a new  movement  of  respect,  and  agitation,  and 
fear,  swayed  the  increasing  crowd,  as  there  glided  in,  with 
the  noiselessness  of  a shadow,  a smiling,  sober  citizen,  plainly, 
but  neatly,  clad,  with  a downcast,  humble  eye.  A milder, 
meeker  face,  no  pastoral  poet  could  assign  to  Corydon  or  Thyr 

* No  one  can  be  a friend  of  the  people,  and  dwell  in  a palace.” — Palters  im*- 
dits  ir«uves  chez  Robespierre^  etc.,  vol.  ii.  p.  132. 

t Or  Hanriot.  It  is  singular  how  undetermined  are  not  only  the  characters  o! 
the  French  Revolution,  but  even  the  spelling  of  their  names,  with  the  historian! 
it  is  Vergniau</ — ^with  the  journalists  of  the  time  it  is  yergniau^r.  With  one  autboi* 
ity  it  is  Robespierre— With  another,  Robersperre. 


ZANONL 


335 


sis — why  did  the  crowd  shrink  and  hold  their  breath  ? As  the 
ferret  in  a burrow  crept  that  slight  form  among  the  larger  and 
rougher  creatures  that  huddled  and  pressed  back  on  each 
other  as  he  passed.  A wink  of  his  stealthy  eye- — arid  the 
huge  Jacobins  left  the  passage  clear,  without  sounder  ques- 
tion. On  he  went,  to  the  apartment  of  the  tyrant ; and 
thither  will  we  follow  him. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Constitutum  est,  ut  quisquis  eum  hominem  dixis^et  fuisss,  capitalem  penderet 
poenam.*— St.  Aug. — Of  the  God  Serapls^\  i8,  de  Civ.  Dei^  c.  5. 

Robespierre  was  reclining  languidly  in  his  fauteuil,  his 
cadaverous  countenance  more  jaded  and  fatigued  than  usual. 
He  to  whom  Catherine  Theot  assured  immortal  life,  looked, 
indeed,  like  a man  at  death’s  door.  On  the  table  before  him 
was  a dish  heaped  wil.  oranges,  with  the  juice  of  which  it  is 
said  that  he  could  alone  assuage  the  acrid  bile  that  overflowed 
his  system ; and  an  old  woman,  richly  dressed  (she  had  been 
a Marquise  in  the  old  regime).,  was  employed  in  peeling  the 
Hesperian  fruits  for  the  sick  Dragon,  with  delicate  fingers 
covered  with  jewels.  I have  before  said,  that  Robespierre 
was^(^  idol  of  the  women.  Strange,  certainly! — but  then 
they  were  French  women ! The  old  Marquise.,  who,  like 
Catherine  Theot,  called  him  “ son,”  really  seemed  to  love  him 
piously  and  disinterestedly  as  a mother  : and  as  she  peeled 
the  oranges,  and  heaped  on  him  the  most  caressing  and 
soothing  expressions,  the  livid  ghost  of  a smile  fluttered  about 
his  meager  lips.  At  a distance,  Payan  and  Couthon,  seated 
at  another  table,  were  writing  rapidly,  and  occasionally  paus- 
ing from  their  work,  to  consult  with  each  other  in  brief 
whispers. 

Suddenly,  one  of  the  Jacobins  opened  the  door,  and  ap- 
proaching Robespierre,  whispered  to  him  the  name  of  Guerin. t 
At  that  word  the  sick  man  started  up,  as  if  new  life  were  in 
the  sound. 

“ My  kind  friend,’*  he  said  to  the  Marquise,  “ forgive  me  ; 
I must  dispense  with  thy  tender  cares.  France  demands  me. 
I am  never  ill  when  I can  serve  my  country  1 ” 

♦It  was  decreed,  that  whoso  should  say  that  he  had  heeu  & man  should  suflef 
the  punishment  of  a capital  offense. 

tSee.  for  the  e^ionage  on  which  Guerin  was  employed,  Les  Papiers  ineditsh 
etc„  vol.  i.  p 366.  No.  xxvai. 


336 


ZANONL 


The  old  Marquise  lifted  up  her  eyes  to  heaven,  and  mur 
mured — Quel  ange  / 

Robespierre  waved  his  hand  impatiently;  and  the  old 
woman,  with  a sigh,  patted  his  pale  cheek,  kissed  his  forehead, 
and  submissively  withdrew.  The  next  moment,  the  smiling, 
sober  man  we  have  before  described,  stood,  bending  low, 
before  the  tyrant.  And  well  might  Robespierre  welcome 
one  of  the  subtlest  agents  of  his  power — one  on  whom  he 
relied  more  than  the  clubs  of  his  Jacobins,  the  tongues  of 
his  orators,  the  bayonets  of  his  armies ; Guerin,  the  most 
renowned  of  his  kcouteurs — the  searching,  prying,  universal, 
omnipresent  spy — who  glided  like  a sunbeam  through  chink 
and  crevice,  and  brought  to  him  intelligence  not  only  of  the 
deeds,  but  the  hearts  of  men ! 

“ Well,  citizen,  well ! — and  what  of  Tallien  ? ” 

“This  morning,  early,  two  minutes  after  eight,  he  went 
out.” 

“ So  early  ? hem ! ” 

“He  passed  Rue  des  Quatre  Fils,  Rue  du  Temple,  Rue 
de  la  Reunion,  au  Marais,  Rue  Martin ; nothing  observable, 
except  that ” 

“That  what?” 

“He  amused  himself  at  a stall,  in  bargaining  for  some 
books.” 

“Bargaining  for  books!  Aha,  the  Charlatan! — he  would 
cloak  the  intriguant  under  the  savant  I Well ! ” 

“ At  last  in  the  Rue  des  Fosses  Montmartre,  an  individual, 
in  a blue  surtout  (unknown),  accosted  him.  They  walked  to- 
gether about  the  street  some  minutes,  and  were  joined  by 
Legendre.” 

“ Legendre  ! approach,  Payan  ! Legendre,  thou  hearest ! ” 

“ I went  into  a fruit-stall,  and  hired  two  little  girls  to  go 
and  play  at  ball  within  hearing.  They  heard  Legendre  say, 
‘ I believe  his  power  is  wearing  itself  out.’  And  Tallien 
answered,  ‘ And  himself^  too.  I would  not  give  three  months’ 
purchase  for  his  life.’  I do  not  know,  citizen,  if  they  meant 
thee  ? ” 

“ Nor  I,  citizen,”  answered  Robespierre,  with  a fell  smile, 
succeeded  by  an  expression  of  gloomy  thought.  “ Ha  ! ” he 
muttered ; “ I am  young  yet — in  the  prime  of  life.  I commit 
no  excess.  No ; my  constitution  is  sound — sound.  Any- 
thing further  of  Tallien  ? ” 

“Yes.  The  woman  whom  he  loves — Teresa  de  Fontenai 
“—who  lies  in  prison,  still  continues  to  correspond  with  him ; 


ZANONL 


337 


to  urge  him  to  save  her  by  thy  destruction : this  my  listeners 
overheard.  His  servant  is  the  messenger  between  the  pris- 
oner and  himself.” 

“ So  ! The  servant  shall  be  seized  in  the  open  streets  of 
Paris.  The  Reign  of  Terror  is  not  over  yet.  With  the  letters 
found  on  him,  if  such  their  context,  I will  pluck  Tallien  from 
his  benches  in  the  Convention.” 

Robespierre  rose,  and  after  walking  a few  moments  to  and 
fro  the  room  in  thought,  opened  the  door,  and  summoned  one 
of  the  Jacobins  without.  To  him  he  gave  his  orders  for  the 
watch  and  arrest  of  Tallien’s  servant;  and  then  threw  himself 
again  into  his  chair.  As  the  Jacobin  departed,  Guerin 
whispered — 

“ Is  not  that  the  citizen  Aristides  ? ” 

“ Yes  ; a faithful  fellow,  if  he  would  wash  himself,  and  not 
swear  so  much.” 

“ Didst  thou  not  guillotine  his  brother?” 

“ But  Aristides  denounced  him.” 

“ Nevertheless,  are  such  men  safe  about  thy  person  ?” 

“ Humph  ! that  is  true.”  And  Robespierre,  drawing  out 
his  pocket-book,  wrote  a memorandum  in  it,  replaced  it  in  his 
vest,  and  resumed — 

“ What  else  of  Tallien  ? ” 

“ Nothing  more.  He  and  Legendre,  with  the  unknown, 
walked  to  the  Jardin  EgaliU  and  there  parted.  I saw  Tallien 
to  his  house.  But  I have  other  news.  Thou  badst  me 
watch  for  those  who  threaten  thee  in  secret  letters.” 

“ Guerin  ! Hast  thou  detected  them  ? Hast  thou — ^hast 
thou ” 

And  the  tyrant,  as  he  spoke,  opened  and  shut  both  his 
hands,  as  if  already  grasping  the  lives  of  the  writers,  and 
one  of  those  convulsive  grimaces,  that  seemed  like  an 
epileptic  affection,  to  which  he  was  subject,  distorted  his 
features. 

“ Citizen,  I think  I have  found  one.  Thou  must  know, 
that,  among  those  most  disaffected,  is  the  painter,  Nicot.” 

“ Stay,  stay  ! ” said  Robespierre,  opening  a manuscript 
book,  bound  in  red  morocco  (for  Robespierre  was  neat  and 
precise,  even  in  his  death-lists),  and  turning  to  an  alphabetical 
index — “ Nicot ! — I have  him — atheist,  sans-culotte  (I  hate 
slovens),  friend  of  Hebert ! Aha  ! N.  B.  Rene  Dumas 
knows  of  his  early  career  and  crimes.  Proceed  ! ” 

“ This  Nicot  has  been  suspected  of  diffusing  tracts  and 
pamphlets  against  thyself  and  the  ComiU^  Yesterday  evening, 


338 


ZANONI, 


when  he  was  out,  his  porter  admitted  me  into  his  apartment^ 
Rue  Beau-Repaire.  With  my  master-key  I opened  his  desk 
and  escritoire.  I found  therein  a drawing  of  thyself  at  the 
guillotine;  and  underneath  was  written — ^ Bourreau  de  ton 
paySf  Us  V arret  de  ton  chd^timent  / ’ * I compared  the  words 
with  the  fragments  of  the  various  letters  thou  gavest  me ; 
the  handwriting  tallies  with  one.  See,  I tore  off  the  writ- 
ing.” 

Robespierre  looked,  smiled,  and,  as  if  his  vengeance  were 
already  satisfied,  threw  himself  on  his  chair.  “ It  is  well ! 
I feared  it  was  a more  powerful  enemy.  This  man  must  be 
arrested  at  once.” 

“ And  he  waits  below.  I brushed  by  him  as  I ascended 
the  stairs.” 

“ Does  he  so  ? — admit ! — nay — hold  ! hold ! Guerin,  with- 
draw into  the  inner  chamber  till  I summon  thee  again.  Dear 
Payan,  see  that  this  Nicot  conceals  no  weapons.” 

Payan,  who  was  as  brave  as  Robespierre  was  pusillanimous, 
repressed  the  smile  of  disdain  that  quivered  on  his  lips  a 
moment,  and  left  the  room. 

Meanwhile,  Robespierre,  with  his  head  buried  in  his  bosom, 
seemed  plunged  in  deep  thought.  “ Life  is  a melancholy 
thing,  Couthon  ! ” said  he,  suddenly. 

“ Begging  your  pardon,  I think  death  worse,”  answered 
the  philanthropist,  gently. 

Robespierre  made  no  rejoinder,  but  took  from  his  porte- 
feuille  that  singular  letter  which  was  found  afterward  among 
his  papers,  and  is  marked  LXI.  in  the  published  collection. f 

‘‘Without  doubt,”  it  began,  “you  are  uneasy  at  not  having 
earlier  received  news  from  me.  Be  not  alarmed  ; you  know 
that  I ought  only  to  reply  by  our  ordinary  courier ; and  as  he 
has  been  interrupted  dans  sa  derniere  course^  that  is  the  cause 
of  my  delay.  When  you  receive  this,  employ  all  diligence  to 
flj  a theater  where  you  are  about  to  appear  and  disappear 
for  the  last  time.  It  were  idle  to  recall  to  you  all  the  reasons 
that  expose  you  to  peril.  The  last  step  that  should  place 
you  sur  le  sopha  de  la presinence^  but  brings  you  to  the  scaf- 
fold ; and  the  mob  will  spit  on  your  face  as  it  has  spat  on 
those  whom  you  have  judged.  Since,  then,  you  have 
accumulated  here  a sufficient  treasure  for  existence,  I await 
you  with  great  impatience,  to  laugh  with  you  at  the  part  you 
have  played  in  the  troubles  of  a nation  as  credulous  as  it  is 

* Exocutioner  of  thy  county,  read  the  decree  oi~  thy  putvishment* 
t Papiers  inedils,  etc.,  vol.  it.  p.  156. 


ZANOm. 


339 


avid  of  novelties.  Take  your  part  according  to  our  arrange^ 
ments — all  is  prepared.  I conclude— our  courier  waits.  I 
expect  your  reply.” 

Musingly  and  slowly  the  Dictator  devoured  the  contents  of 
this  epistle.  “No,”  he  said  to  himself — “no;  he  who  has 
tasted  power  can  no  longer  enjoy  repose.  Yet,  Danton,  Dan- 
ton  ! thou  wert  right ; better  to  be  a poor  fisherman,  than  to 
govern  men.”  * 

The  door  opened,  and  Payan  reappeared  and  whispered 
Robespierre — “ All  is  safe  ! See  the  man.” 

The  Dictator,  satisfied,  summoned  his  attendant  Jacobin  to 
conduct  Nicot  to  his  presence.  The  painter  entered  with  a 
fearless  expression  in  his  deformed  features,  and  stood  erect 
before  Robespierre,  who  scanned  him  with  a sidelong  eye. 

It  is  remarkable  that  most  of  the  principal  actors  of  the 
Revolution  were  singularly  hideous  in  appearance — from  the 
colossal  ugliness  of  Mirabeau  and  Danton,  or  the  villanous  fe- 
rocity in  the  countenance  of  David  and  Simon,  to  the  filthy  squa- 
lor of  Marat,  the  sinister  and  bilious  meanness  of  the  Dictator’s 
features.  But  Robespierre,  who  was  said  to  resemble  a cat, 
had  also  a cat’s  cleanness ; and  his  prim  and  dainty  dress, 
his  shaven  smoothness,  the  womanly  whiteness  of  his  lean 
hands,  made  yet  more  remarkable  the  disorderly  ruffianism 
that  characterized  the  attire  and  mien  of  the  ^^mter-sans- 
culotte, 

“ And  so,  citizen,”  said  Robespierre,  mildly,  “ thou  wouldst 
speak  with  me  ? I know  thy  merits  and  civism  have  been 
overlooked  too  long.  Thou  wouldst  ask  some  suitable  pro- 
vision in  the  State  ? Scruple  not — say  on  ! ” 

“ Virtuous  Robespierre,  toi  qui  eclaires  Vunivers^\  I come  not 
to  ask  a favor,  but  to  render  service  to  the  State.  I have  dis- 
covered a correspondence  that  lays  open  a conspiracy,  of 
which  many  of  the  actors  are  yet  unsuspected.”  And  he 
placed  the  papers  on  the  table.  Robespierre  seized,  and  ran 
his  eye  over  them  rapidly  and  eagerly. 

“ Good — good  ! ” he  muttered  to  himself ; — “ this  is  all  I 
wanted.  Barrere — Legendre  ! I have  them  ! Camille  Des- 
moulins was  but  their  dupe.  I loved  him  once  ; I never  loved 
them  ! Citizen  Nicot,  I thank  thee.  I observe  these  letters 
are  addressed  to  an  Englishman.  What  Frenchman  but 
must  distrust  these  English  wolves  in  sheep’s  clothing ! 

“ * II  vaudrait  mieux*'*  said  Danton,  in  his  dungeon,  eirtUK  pauvri  pecheui 
quc  de  gouverner  les  homntesl^ 

i Thou  who  enlightenest  the  world. 


340 


ZANONL 


France  wants  no  longer  citizens  of  the  world  ; that  farce 
ended  with  Anarcharsis  Clootz.  I beg  pardon,  Citizen  Nicotj 
but  Clootz  and  Hebert  were  thy  friends.” 

“ Nay,”  said  Nicot,  apologetically,  “ we  are  all  liable  to  be 
deceived.  I ceased  to  honor  them  whom  thou  didst  declare 
against ; for  I disown  my  own  senses  rather  than  thy  jus* 
tice.” 

“ Yes,  I pretend  to  justice  ; that  is  the  virtue  I affect,”  said 
Robespierre,  meekly  ; and  with  his  feline  propensities  he  en- 
joyed, even  in  that  critical  hour  of  vast  schemes,  of  imminent 
danger,  of  meditated  revenge,  the  pleasure  of  playing  with  a 
solitary  victim.f  “ And  my  justice  shall  no  longer  be  blind 
to  thy  services,  good  Nicot.  Thou  knowest  this  Glyndon  ? ” 

■ “ Yes,  well — intimately.  He  was  my  friend,  but  I would 
give  up  my  brother  if  he  were  one  of  the  ‘ indulgents^  I am 
not  ashamed  to  say,  that  I have  received  favors  from  this 
man.” 

“ Aha  I — and  thou  dost  honestly  hold  the  doctrine  that 
where  a man  threatens  my  life,  all  personal  favors  are  to  be 
forgotten  ? ” 

“All  I” 

“ Good  citizen ! — kind  Nicot ! — oblige  me  by  writing  the 
address  of  this  Glyndon.” 

Nicot  stooped  to  the  table ; and,  suddenly,  when  the  pen  was 
in  his  hand,  a thought  flashed  across  him,  and  he  paused,  eni» 
harassed  and  confused. 

“ Write  on  kind  Nicot  I ” 

The  painter  slowly  obeyed. 

“ Who  are  the  other  familiars  of  Glyndon  ?” 

“ It  was  on  that  point  I was  about  to  speak  to  thee,  Repr& 
sentant^'  said  Nicot.  “ He  visits  daily  a woman,  a foreigner, 
who  knows  all  his  secrets  ; she  affects  to  be  poor,  and  to  sup- 
port her  child  by  industry.  But  she  is,  the  wife  of  an  Italian 
of  immense  wealth,  and  there  is  no  doubt  that  she  has  moneys 
which  are  spent  in  corrupting  the  citizens.  She  should  be 
seized  and  arrested.” 

“ Write  down  her  name  also.” 

“ But  no  time  is  to  be  lost ; for  I know  that  both  have  a 
design  to  escape  from  Paris  this  very  night.” 

“Our  government  is  prompt,  good  Nicot — -never  fear. 
Humph  I — humph  1 ” and  Robespierre  took  the  paper  on  which 

+ The  'most  detestable  anecdote  of  this  peculiar  hypocrisy  in  Robespierre  ¥ 
that  in  which  he  is  recorded  to  have  tenderly  pressed  the  hand  of  his  old  school 
Iriand,  Camille  Desmohlina,  the  day  that  he  signed  the  warrant  for  tm  arresli 


/ 


ZANOm. 


Nicot  had  wiitten,  and  stooping  over  it— for  he  was  near- 
sighted— added,  smilingly,  “ Dost  thou  always  write  the  same 
hand,  citizen  ? This  seems  almost  like  a disguised  char- 
acter.*' 

“ I should  not  like  them  to  know  who  denounced  them, 
Representant^ 

“ Good  I good  ! — ^Thy  virtue  shall  be  rewarded,  trust  me. 
Salut  ef.  fraternite i 

Robespierre  half  rose  as  he  spoke,  and  Nicot  withdrew. 

Ho,  there  I — ^without  I ” cried  the  Dictator,  ringing  his 
bell;  and  as  the  ready  Jacobin  attended  the  (summons) — 
“follow  that  man,  Jean  Nicot.  The  instant  he  has  cleared 
the  house  seize  him.  At  once  to  the  Conciergerie  with  him  I 
Stay— nothing  against  the  law ; there  is  thy  warrant.  The 
public  accuser  shall  have  my  instruction.  Away ! — quick  I ” 

The  Jacobin  vanished.  All  trace  of  illness,  of  infirmity, 
had  gone  from  the  valetudinarian ; he  stood  erect  on  the 
floor,  his  face  twitching  convulsively,  and  his  arms  folded. 

“ Ho  1 Guerin  I " (the  spy  reappeared) — “ take  these  ad- 
dresses. Within  an  hour  this  Englishman  and  this  woman 
must  be  in  prison ; their  revelations  will  aid  me  against 
worthier  foes.  They  shall  die — they  shall  perish  with  the 
rest  on  the  loth — ^the  third  day  from  this.  There  ! ” and  he 
wrote  hastily — “ there,  also,  is  thy  warrant ! — Off  ! 

“ And  now,  Couthon — Payan — we  will  dally  no  longer  with 
Tallien  and  his  crew.  I have  information  that  the  Conven- 
tion will  not  attend  the  F^te  on  the  loth.  We  must  trust  only 
to  the  sword  of  the  law.  I must  compose  my  thoughts — pre- 
pare my  harangue.  To-morrow,  I will  reappear  at  the  Con- 
vention— to-morrow,  bold  St,  Just  joins  us,  fresh  from  our  vic- 
torious armies— to-morrow  from  the  tribune,  I will  dart  the 
thunderbolt  on  the  masked  enemies  of  France — to-morrow, 
I will  demand,  in  the  face  of  the  country,  the  heads  of  the 
(Conspirators/ 


34* 


ZANONL 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

he  gliuve  est  centre  toi  tourne  de  toutes  patnes.f 

La  Harpe,  Jeanne  de  Naples,  Act  it  sc.  4. 

In  the  mean  time,  Glyndon,  after  an  audience  of  soma 

length  with  C , in  which  the  final  preparations  were 

arranged,  sanguine  of  safety,  and  foreseeing  no  obstacle  to 
escape,  bent  his  way  back  to  Fillide.  Suddenly,  in  the  midst 
of  his  cheerful  thoughts,  he  fancied  he  heard  a voice  too  well 
and  too  terribly  recognized,  hissing  in  his  ear, — “ What  I thou 
wouldst  defy  and  escape  me  ! thou  wouldst  go  back  to  virtue 
and  content.  It  is  in  vain — it  is  too  late.  No,  /will  not  haunt 
thee  ; — human  footsteps,  no  less  inexorable,  dog  thee  now. 
Me  thou  shalt  not  see  again  till  in  the  dungeon,  at  midnight, 

before  thy  doom  ! Behold  ! ” 

And  Glyndon,  mechanically  turning  his  head,  saw,  close 
behind  him,  the  stealthy  figure  of  a man  whom  he  had 
observed  before,  but  with  little  heed,  pass  and  repass  him,  as 

he  quitted  the  house  of  Citizen  C . Instantly  and 

instinctively  he  knew  that  he  was  watched — that  he  was  pur- 
sued. The  street  he  was  in  was  obscure  and  deserted,  for  the 
day  was  oppressively  sultry,  and  it  was  the  hour  when  few 
were  abroad,  either  on  business  or  pleasure.  Bold  as  he  was, 
an  icy  chill  shot  through  his  heart.  He  knew  too  well  the 
tremendous  system  that  then  reigned  in  Paris  not  to  be  aware 
of  his  danger.  As  the  sight  of  the  first  plague-boil  to  the  victim 
of  the  pestilence,  was  the  first  sight  of  the  shadowy  spy  to  that 
of  the  Revolution — the  watch,  the  arrest,  the  trial,  the  guillotine 
— these  made  the  regular  and  rapid  steps  of  the  monster 
that  the  anarchists  called  Law  ! He  breathed  hard,  he  heard 
distinctly  the  loud  beating  of  his  heart.  And  so  he  paused, 
still  and  motionless,  gazing  upon  the  shadow  that  halted  also 
behind  him  ! 

Presently,  the  absence  of  all  allies  to  the  spy,  the  solitude 
of  the  streets,  reanimated  his  courage ; he  made  a step 
toward  his  pursuer,  who  retreated  as  he  advanced.  Citizen, 
thou  followest  me,”  he  said.  “ Thy  business  ? ” 

“ Surely,”  answered  the  man,  with  a deprecating  smile, 

t The  sword  is  raised  against  you  on  all  sides. 


ZANONI. 


343 


“ the  streets  are  broad  enough  for  both  ! Thou  art  not  so 
bad  a republican  as  to  arrogate  all  Paris  to  thyself  1 

“ Go  on  first,  then.  I make  way  for  thee.” 

The  man  bowed,  doffed  his  hat  politely,  and  passed  for- 
ward. The  next  moment  Glyndon  plunged  into  a winding 
lane,  and  fled  fast  through  a labyrinth  of  streets,  passages, 
and  alleys.  By  degrees  he  composed  himself,  and  looking 
behind,  imagined  that  he  had  baffled  the  pursuer ; he  then, 
by  a circuitous  route,  bent  his  way  once  more  to  his  home. 
As  he  emerged  into  one  of  the  broader  streets,  a passenger, 
wrapped  in  a mantle,  brushing  so  quickly  by  him  that  he  did 
not  observe  his  countenance,  whispered — “ Clarence  Glyndon, 
you  are  dogged — follow  me  ! ” and  the  stranger  walked 
quickly  before  him.  Clarence  turned,  and  sickened  once 
more  to  see  at  his  heels,  with  the  same  servile  smile  on  his 
face,  the  pursuer  he  fancied  he  had  escaped.  He  forgot  the 
injunction  of  the  stranger  to  follow  him,  and  perceiving  a 
crowd  gathered  close  at  hand,  round  a caricature-shop,  dived 
amid  them,  and,  gaining  another  street,  altered  the  direction 
he  had  before  taken,  and,  after  a long  and  breathless  course, 
gained,  without  once  more  seeing  the  spy,  a distant  quarti^roi 
the  city.  Here,  indeed,  all  seemed  so  serene  and  fair,  that  his 
artist  eye,  even  in  that  imminent  hour,  rested  with  pleasure  on 
the  scene.  It  was  a comparatively  broad  space,  formed  by  one 
of  the  noble  quays.  The  Seine  flowed  majestically  along, 
with  boats  and  craft  resting  on  its  surface.  The  sun  gilt  a 
thousand  spires  and  domes,  and  gleamed  on  the  white  palaces 
of  a fallen  chivalry.  Here,  fatigued  and  panting,  he  paused 
an  instant  and  a cooler  air  from  the  river  fanned  his  brow. 
“Awhile,  at  least,  I am  safe  here,”  he  murmured  ; and  as  he 
spoke,  some  thirty  paces  behind  him  he  beheld  the  spy.  He 
stood  rooted  to  the  spot;  wearied  and  spent  as  he  was,  escape 
seemed  no  longer  possible — the  river  on  one  side  (no  bridge 
at  hand),  and  the  long  row  of  mansions  closing  up  the  other. 
As  he  halted,  he  heard  laughter  and  obscene  songs,  from  a 
house  a little  in  his  rear,  between  himself  and  the  spy.  It 
was  a cafe  fearfully  known  in  that  quarter.  Hither  often 
resorted  the  black  troop  of  Henriot — the  minions  and  huis^ 
siers  of  Robespierre.  The  spy,  then,  had  hunted  the  victim 
within  the  jaws  of  the  hounds.  The  man  slowly  advanced, 
and  pausing  before  the  open  window  of  the  cafe,  put  his  head 
through  the  aperture,  as  to  address  and  summon  forth  its 
armed  inmates. 

At  that  very  instant,  and  while  the  spy^'s  head  was  thus 


344 


ZANONL 


turned  from  him,  standing  in  the  half-open  gateway  of  the 
house  immediately  before  him,  he  perceived  the  stranger  who 
had  warned  ; the  figure,  scarcely  distinguishable  through  the 
mantle  that  wrapped  it,  motioned  to  him  to  enter.  He 
sprang  noiselessly  through  the  friendly  opening;  the  door 
closed ; breathlessly  he  followed  the  stranger  up  a flight  of 
broad  stairs,  and  through  a suite  of  empty  rooms,  until, 
having  gained  a small  cabinet,  his  conductor  doffed  the  large 
hat  and  the  long  mantle  that  had  hitherto  concealed  his  shape 
and  features,  and  Glyndon  beheld  Zanoni  I 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Think  not  my  magic  wonders  wrought  by  aid 
Of  Stygian  angels  summoned  up  from  hell 
Scorn’d  and  accursed  be  those  who  have  essay’d, 

Herjgloomy  Dives  and  Afrites  to  compel. 

But  by  perception  of  the  secret  powers 
Of  mineral  spiings,  in  nature’s  inmost  cell, 

Of  herbs  in  curtain  of  her  greenest  bowers, 

And  of  the  moving  stars  o’er  mountain  tops  and  towers. 

Wiffen’s  Translation  of  Z’a cant.  xiv.  xliii. 

•‘You  are  safe  here,  young  Englishman!’’  said  Zanoni, 
motioning  Glyndon  to  a seat.  “ Fortunate  for  you  that  I 
come  on  your  track  at  last ! ” 

“ Far  happier  had  it  been  if  we  had  never  met ! Yet,  even 
in  these  last  hours  of  my  fate,  I rejoice  to  look  once  more  on 
the  face  of  that  ominous  and  mysterious  being  to  whom  I can 
ascribe  all  the  sufferings  I have  known.  Here,  then,  thou 
•halt  not  palter  with  or  elude  me.  Here,  before  we  part,  thou 
shalt  unravel  to  me  the  dark  enigma,  if  not  of  thy  life,  of  my 
own  1 ” < 

“ Hast  thou  suffered  ? Poor  Neophyte  ! ” said  Zanoni, 
pityingly.  “ Yes — I see  it  on  thy  brow.  But  wherefore 
wouldst  thou  blame  me  ? Did  I not  warn  thee  against  the 
whispers  of  thy  spirit  ? — did  I not  warn  thee  to  forbear  ? 
Did  I not  tell  thee  that  the  ordeal  was  one  of  awful  hazard 
and  tremendous  fears  ? — nay,  did  I not  offer  to  resign  to  thee 
the  heart  that  was  mighty  enough,  while  mine,  Glyndon  , to 
content  me  ? Was  it  not  thine  own  daring  and  resolute 
choice  to  brave  the  initiation  ? Of  thine  own  free  will 
didst  thou  make  Meinour  thy  master,  and  his  lore  thy 
study ! ” 

“ But  whence  came  the  irresistible  desires  of  that  wild  and 


ZANOm. 


34S 


unholy  knowledge  > I knew  them  not  till  thine  evil  eye  fell 
upon  me,  and  I was  drawn  into  the  magic  atmosphere  of  thy 
being ! ” 

“ Thou  errest ! — the  desires  were  in  thee  ; and  whether  in 
one  direction  or  the  other,  would  have  forced  their  way  ! 
Man  ! thou  askest  me  the  enigma,  of  thy  fate  and  my  own  ! 
Look  round  all  being,  is  there  not  mystery  everywhere  ? 
Can  thine  eye  trace  the  ripening  of  the  grain  beneath  the 
earth  ? In  the  moral  and  the  physical  world  alike,  lie  dark 
portents,  far  more  wondrous  than  the  powers  thou  wouldst 
ascribe  to  me  ! ” 

“ Dost  thou  disown  those  powers  ? — dost  thou  confess  thy- 
self an  impostor  ? — or  wilt  thou  dare  to  tell  me  that  thou  art 
indeed  sold  to  the  Evil  One  ? — a magician,  whose  familiar 
has  haunted  me  night  and  day  ! ” 

“ It  matters  not  wEat  I am,”  returned  Zanoni ; ‘‘  it  matters 
only  whether  I can  aid  thee  to  exorcise  thy  dismal  phantom, 
and  return  once  more  to  the  wholesome  air  of  this  common 
life.  Something,  however,  will  I tell  thee,  not  to  vindicate 
myself,  but  the  Heaven  and  the  Nature  that  thy  doubts 
malign.” 

Zanoni  paused  a moment,  and  resumed,  with  a slight 
smile — 

“ In  thy  younger  days  thou  hast  doubtless  read  with  delight 
the  great  Christian  poet,  whose  muse,  like  the  morning  it 
celebrated,  came  to  earth  “ crowned  with  flowers  culled  in 
Paradise.’*  No  spirit  was  more  imbued  with  the  knightly 
superstitions  of  the  time  ; and  surely  the  Poet  of  Jerusalem 
hath  sufficiently,  to  satisfy  even  the  Inquisitor  he  consulted, 
execrated  all  the  practitioners  of  the  unlawful  spells  ii)' 
voked, — 

* Per  isforzar  Cocito  o Flegetonte.’f 

But  in  his  sorrows  and  his  wrongs — in  the  prison  of  his 
madhouse,  know  you  not  that  Tasso  himself  found  his  solace, 
his  escape,  in  the  recognition  of  a holy  and  spiritual  Theur- 
gia, — of  a magic  that  could  summon  the  Angel,  or  the  Good 
Genius,  not  the  fiend  ? And  do  you  not  remember  how  he, 
deeply  versed  as  he  was,  for  his  age,  in  the  mysteries  of  the 
nobler  Platonism,  which  hints  at  the  secrets  of  all  the  starry 
brotherhoods,  from  the  Chaldaean  to  the  later  Rosicrucian^ 

♦ ^ — I’aurea  testa 

, Di  rose  colte  in  Paradiso  infiora. 

Tasso,  Ger.  Lib.  iv.  i. 

t To  constrain  Cocyttw  or  Phlegcthon. 


346 


ZANONl 


discriminates  in  his  lovely  verse  between  the  black  art  ol 
Ismeno  and  the  glorious  lore  of  the  Enchanter  who  counsels  ' 
and  guides  upon  their  errand  the  Champions  of  the  Holy 
Land  ? His,  not  the  charms  wrought  by  the  aid.  of  the 
Stygian  Rebels  ; f but  the  perception  of  the  secret  powers  of 
the  fountain  and  the  herb, — the  Arcana  of  the  unknown 
nature  and  the  various  motions  of  the  stars.  His,  the  holy 
haunts  of  Lebanon  and  Carmel — beneath  his  feet  he  saw  the 
clouds,  the  snows,  the  hues  of  Iris,  the  generations  of  the 
rains  and  dews.  Did  the  Christian  Hermit  who  converted 
that  Enchanter  (no  fabulous  being,  but  the  type  of  all  spirit 
that  would  aspire  through  Nature  up  to  God),  command  him 
to  lay  aside  these  sublime  studies,  ‘ Le  solite  arte  e V uso  mio  ? ’ 
No  ! but  to  cherish  and  direct  them  to  worthy  ends.  And  in 
this  grand  conception  of  the  poet  lies  the  secret  of  the  true 
Theurgia,  which  startles  your  ignorance  in  a more  learned 
day  with  puerile  apprehensions,  and  the  nightmares  of  a sick 
man’s  dreams.” 

Again  Zanoni  paused,  and  again  resumed : — 

“ In  ages  far  remote — of  a civilization  far  different  from 
that  which  now  merges  the  individual  in  the  state,  there 
existed  men  of  ardent  minds,  and  an  intense  desire  of  knowl- 
edge. In  the  mighty  and  solemn  kingdoms  in  which  they 
dwelt,  there  were  no  turbulent  and  earthly  channels  to  work 
off  the  fever  of  their  minds.  Set  in  the  antique  mold  of 
castes  through  which  no  intellect  could  pierce,  no  valor  could 
force  its  way,  the  thirst  for  wisdom,  alone,  reigned  in  the 
hearts  of  those  who  received  its  study  as  a heritage  from  sire 
to  son.  Hence,  even  in  your  imperfect  records  of  the  progress 
of  human  knowledge,  you  find  that,  in  the  earliest  ages.  Phi- 
losophy descended  not  to  the  business  and  homes  of  men.  It 
dwelt  amid  the  wonders  of  the  loftier  creation ; it  sought  to 
analyze  the  formation  of  matter — the  essentials  of  the  pre- 
vailing soul ; to  read  the  mysteries  of  the  starry  orbs ; to 
dive  into  those  depths  of  Nature  in  which  Zoroaster  is  said  by 
the  schoolmen  first  to  have  discovered  the  arts  which  your 
ignorance  classes  under  the  name  of  magic.  In  such  an  age, 
then,  arose  some  men,  who,  amid  the  vanities  and  delusions 
of  their  class,  imagined  that  they  detected  gleams  of  a brighter 
and  steadier  lore.  They  fancied  ail  affinity  existing  among 
all  the  works  of  Nature,  and  that  in  the  lowliest  lay  the 

+ See  this  remarkable  passage,  which  does  indeed  not  unfaithfully  represent  the 
doctrine  of  the  Pythagorean  and  the  Platonist,  in  Tasso  cant.  xiv.  stanzas  xli.  to 
»lvii.  (Ger.  Lib.)  They  are  beautifully  translated  by  Wiffen. 


ZANOm. 


347 


secret  attraction  that  might  conduct  them  upward  to  the 
loftiest.*  Centuries  passed,  and  lives  were  wasted  in  these 
discoveries  ; but  step  after  step  was  chronicled  and  marked, 
and  became  the  guide  to  the  few  who  alone  had  the  hereditary 
privilege  to  track  their  path.  At  last  from  this  dimness  upon 
some  eyes  the  light  broke ; but  think  not,  young  visionary, 
that  to  those  who  nursed  unholy  thoughts,  over  whom  the 
Origin  of  Evil  held  a sway,  that  dawning  was  vouchsafed.  It 
could  be  given  then,  as  now,  only  to  the  purest  ecstacies 
of  imagination  and  intellect,  undistracted  by  the  cares 
of  a vulgar  life  or  the  appetites  of  the  common  clay. 
Far  from  descending  to  the  assistance  of  a fiend,  theirs 
was  but  the  august  ambition  to  approach  nearer  to  the  Fount 
of  Good ; the  more  they  emancipated  themselves  from 
this  limbo  of  the  planets,  the  more  they  were  penetrated 
by  the  splendor  and  beneficence  of  God,  And  if  they  sought, 
and  at  last  discovered,  how  to  the  eye  of  the  Spirit  all  the 
subtler  modifications  of  being  and  of  matter  might  be  made 
apparent ; if  they  discovered  how,  for  the  wings  of  the  Spirit, 
all  space  might  be  annihilated;  and  while  the  body  stood 
heavy  and  solid  here,  as  a deserted  tomb,  the  freed  Idea 
might  wander  from  star  to  star ; — if  such  discoveries  became 
in  truth  their  own,  the  sublimest  luxury  of  their  knowledge 
was  but  this — to  wonder,  to  venerate,  and  adore ! For,  as 
one  not  unlearned  in  these  high  matters  has  expressed  it, 
‘ There  is  a principle  of  the  soul  superior  to  all  external 
nature,  and  through  this  principle  we  are  capable  of  surpass- 
ing the  order  and  systems  of  the  world,  and  participating  the 
immortal  life  and  the  energy  of  the  Sublime  Celestials. 
When  the  soul  is  elevated  to  natures  above  itself,  it  deserts 
the  order  to  which  it  is  awhile  compelled,  and  by  a religious 
magnetism  is  attracted  to  another,  and  a loftier,  with  which  it 
blends  and  mingles.’f  Grant,  then,  that  such  beings  found 
at  last  the  secret  to  arrest  death — to  fascinate  danger  and 
the  foe — to  walk  the  revolutions  of  the  earth  unharmed ; think 
you  that  this  life  could  teach  them  other  desire  than  to  yearn 
the  more  for  the  Immortal,  and  to  fit  their  intellect  the  better 
for  the  higher  being  to  which  they  might,  when  Time  and 

* Agreeably,  it  would  seem,  to  the  notion  of  lamblichus  and  Plotinus,  that  the 
universe  is  as  an  animal ; so  that  there  is  sympathy  and  communication  between 
one  part  and  the  other ; in  the  smallest  part  may  be  the  subtlest  nerve.  And  hence 
the  universal  magnetism  of  Nature.  But  man  contemplates  the  universe  as  dn 
animalcule  would  an  elephant.  The  animalcule,  seeing  scarcely  the  tip  of  the 
hoof,  would  be  inc^able  of  comprehending  that  the  trunk  belonged  to  the  samtt 
creature — that  the  effect  produced  upon  one  extremity  would  be  felt  in  an  instant  by 
the  other. 

i From  lambTich.  on  the  Mysteries,  c.  7,  sect,  7. 


348 


ZANOm, 


Death  exist  no  longer,  be  transferred  ? Away  with  youi 
gloomy  phantasies  of  sorcerer  and  daemon  ! the  soul  can 
aspire  onjy  to  the  light ; and  even  the  error  of  our  lofty 
knowledge  was  but  the  forgetfulness  of  the  weakness,  the 
passions,  and  the  bonds,  which  the  death  we  so  vainly  Con- 
quered only  can  purge  away  ! ” 

This  address  was  so  different  from  what  Glyndon  had  antici- 
pated, that  he  remained  for  some  moments  speechless,  and  at 
length  faltered  out — 

“ But  why,  then,  to  me ’’ 

“Why,”  added  Zanoni,  “why  to  thee  have  been  only  the 
penance  and  the  terror — the  Threshold  and  the  Phantom  ? 
Vain  man  i look  to  the  commonest  elements  of  the  common 
learning.  Can  every  tyro  at  his  mere  wish  and  will  become 
the  master  ? — can  the  student,  when  he  has  bought  his  Euclid, 
become  a Newton  ? — can  the  youth  whom  the  Muses  haunt,  say, 
‘ I will  equal  Homer  ? ’ — yea,  can  yon  pale  tyrant,  with  all  the 
parchment-laws  of  a hundred  system-shapers,  and  the  pikes 
of  his  dauntless  multitude,  carve  at  his  will  a constitution  not 
more  vicious  than  the  one  which  the  madness  of  a mob  could 
overthrow } When,  in  that  far  time  to  which  I have  referred, 
the  student  aspired  to  the  heights  to  which  thou  wouldst  have 
sprung  at  a single  bound,  he  was  trained  from  his  very  cradle 
to  the  career  he  was  to  run.  The  internal  and  the  outward 
nature  were  made  clear  to  his  eyes,^  year  after  year,  as  they 
opened  on  the  day.  He  was  not  admitted  to  the  practical 
initiation  till  not  one  earthly  wish  chained  that  sublimest 
faculty  which  you  call  the  Imagination,  one  carnal  desire 
clouded  the  penetrath^e  essence  that  you  call  the  Intellect. 
And  even  then,  and  at  the  best,  how  few  attained  to  the  last 
mystery  ! Happier  inasmuch  as  they  attained  the  earlier  to 
the  holy  glories  for  which  Death  is  the  heavenliest  gate.” 

Zanoni  paused,  and  a shade  of  thought  and  sorrow  dark- 
ened his  celestial  beauty. 

“ And  are  there,  indeed,  others,  besides  thee  and  Mej- 
nour,  who  lay  claim  to  thine  attributes,  and  have  attained  to 
thy  secrets  ? ” 

“ Others  there  have  been  before  us,  but  we  two  now  are 
alone  on  earth.” 

“ Impostor ! thou  betrayest  thyself ! If  they  could  con- 
quer Death,  why  live  they  not  yet  ? 

“ Child  of  a day  ! ” answered  Zanoni,  mournfully,  “ have  I 

♦ Glyndon  appears  to  forget  that  Mejnour  had  before  answered  the  very  question 
which  his  doubts,  here,  a second  time  suggest. 


ZANOm. 


.149 


not  told  thee  the  error  of  our  knowledge  w^as  the  forgetfulness 
of  the  desires  and  passions  which  the  spirit  never  can  wholly 
and  permanently  conquer,  while  this  matter  cloaks  it  ? Canst 
thou  think  that  it  is  no  sorrow,  either  to  reject  all  human  ties, 
all  friendship,  and  all  love,  or  to  see,  day  after  day,  friendship 
and  love  wither  from  our  life,  as  blossoms  from  the  stem  ? 
Canst  thou  wonder  how,  with  the  power  to  live  while  the 
world  shall  last,  ere  even  our  ordinary  date  be  finished  we  yet 
may  prefer  to  die  ? Wonder  rather  that  there  are  two  who 
have  clung  so  faithfully  to  earth ! Me,  I confess,  that  earth 
can  enamor  yet.  Attaining  to  the  last  secret  while  youth  was 
in  its  bloon,  youth  still  colors  all  around  me  with  its  own  luxu- 
riant beauty;  fo  me,  yet,  to  breathe  is  to  enjoy.  The  fresh- 
ness has  not  faded  from  the  face  of  Nature,  and  not  a herb  in 
which  I cannot  discover  a new  charm — an  undetected  wonder. 
As  with  my  youth,  so  with  Mejnour’s  age ; he  will  tell  you, 
that  life  to  him  is  but  a power  to  examine ; and  not  till  he  has 
exhausted  all  the  marvels  which  the  Creator  has  sown  on 
earth,  would  he  desire  new  habitations  for  the  renewed  Spirit 
to  explore.  We  are  the  types  of  the  two  essences  of  what  is  im- 
perishable— ‘Art,  that  enjoys,  and  Science,  that  contem- 
plates ! ’ And  now,  that  thou  mayst  be  contented  that  the 
secrets  are  not  vouchsafed  to  thee,  learn  that  so  utterly  must 
the  idea  detach  itself  from  what  makes  up  the  occupation  and 
excitement  of  men,  so  must  it  be  void  of  v/hatever  would 
covet,  or  love,  or  hate ; that  for  the  ambitious  man,  for  the 
lover,  the  hater,  the  power  avails  not.  And  I,  at  last,  bound 
and  blinded  by  the  most  common  of  household  ties — I,  dark- 
ened and  helpless,  adjure  thee,  the  baffled  and  discontented — I 
adjure  thee  to  direct,  to  guide  me ; — where  are  they — Oh,  tell 
me — speak ! My  wife — my  child  ? Silent ! — oh,  thou  know- 
est  now  that  I am  no  sorcerer,  no  enemy.  I can  not  give  thee 
what  thy  faculties  deny — I can  not  achieve  what  the  passion- 
less Mejnour  failed  to  accomplish ; but  I can  give  thee  the 
next  best  boon,  perhaps  the  fairest — I can  reconcile  thee  to 
the  daily  world,  and  place  peace  between  thy  conscience  and 
thyself.” 

“ Wilt  thou  promise  ? ” 

“ By  their  sweet  lives,  I promise  ! ” 

Glyndon  looked  and  believed.  He  whispered  the  address 
to  the  house  whither  his  fatal  step  already  had  brought  woe 
and  doom. 

“Bless  thee  for  this,”  exclaimed  Zanoni,  passionately, 
“ and  thou  shalt  be  blessed ! What ! couldst  thou  not  per 


ZANONL 


ceive  that  at  the  entrance  to  all  the  grander  worlds  dwell  the 
race  that  intimidate  and  awe?  Who  in  thy  daily  world  evej 
left  the  old  regions  of  Custom  and  Prescription,  and  felt  no^ 
the  first  seizure  of  the  shapeless  and  nameless  Fear?  Every- 
where around  thee  where  men  aspire  and  labor,  though  they 
see  it  not — in  the  closet  of  the  sage,  in  the  council  of  the  dem* 
agogue,  in  the  camp  of  the  warrior, — everywhere  cowers  and 
darkens  the  Unutterable  Horror.  But  there,  where  thou  hast 
ventured,  alone  is  the  Phantom  visible;  and  never  will  it  cease 
to  haunt,  till  thou  canst  pass  to  the  Infinite,  as  the  seraph,  or 
return  to  the  Familiar,  as  a child  I But  answer  me  this, — 
When,  seeking  to  adhere  to  some  calm  resolve  of  virtue,  the 
Phantom  hath  stalked  suddenly  to  thy  side ; when  its  voice 
hath  whispered  thee  despair;  when  its  ghastly  eyes  would 
scare  thee  back  to  those  scenes  of  earthly  craft  or  riotous  ex- 
citement, from  which,  as  it  leaves  thee  to  worse  foes  to  the 
soul,  its  presence  is  ever  absent,  hast  thou  never  bravely  re- 
sisted the  specter  and  thine  own  horror? — hast  thou  never 
said,  ‘ Come  what  may,  to  Virtue  I will  cling  ? * ” 

“ Alas  I ” answered  Glyndon,  “ only  of  late  have  I dared  to 
do  so.” 

“ And  thou  hast  felt  then  that  the  Phantom  grew  more  dim 
and  its  power  more  faint.” 

“ It  is  true.” 

“ Rejoice,  then ! — thou  hast  overcome  the  true  terror  and 
mystery  of  the  ordeal.  Resolve  is  the  first  success.  Rejoice, 
for  the  exorcism  is  sure  I Thou  art  not  of  those  who,  deny- 
ing a life  to  come,  are  the  victims  of  the  Inexorable  Horror. 
Oh,  when  shall  men  learn,  at  last,  that  if  the  Great  Religion 
inculcates  so  rigidly  the  necessity  of  faith,  it  is  not  alone 
that  FAITH  leads  to  the  world  to  be ; but  that  without  faith 
there  is  no  excellence  in  this — ^faith  is  something  wiser, 
happier,  diviner,  than  we  see  on  earth ! — the  Artist  calls  it 
the  Ideal — the  Priest  Faith.  The  Ideal  and  Faith  are  one 
and  the  same.  Return,  O wanderer ! return.  Feel  what 
beauty  and  holiness  dwell  in  the  Customary  and  the  Old. 
Back  to  thy  gateway  glide,  thou  Horror  I and  calm,  on  the 
child-like  heart,  smile  again,  O azure  Heaven,  with  thy  night 
and  thy  morning  star  but  as  one,  though  under  its  double 
name  of  Memory  and  Hope  I ” 

As  he  thus  spoke,  Zanoni  laid  his  hand  gently  on  the  burn- 
ing temples  of  his  excited  and  wondering  listener ; and  pres- 
ently a sort  of  trance  came  over  him  : he  imagined  that  he 
was  returned  to  the  homg  pf  his  infancy ; that  he  was  in  th« 


ZANOm, 


small  chamber  where,  over  his  early  slumbers,  his  mother  had 
watched  and  prayed.  There  it  was — visible,  palpable,  soli- 
tary, unaltered.  In  the  recess,  the  homely  bed  ; on  the  walls, 
the  shelves  filled  with  holy  books  ; the  very  easel  on  which 
he  had  first  sought  to  call  the  ideal  to  the  canvas,  dust-cov- 
ered, broken,  in  the  corner.  Below  the  window  lay  the  old 
church- yard  ; he  saw  it  green  in  the  distance,  the  sun  glanc- 
ing through  the  yew-trees  ; he  saw  the  tomb  where  father  and 
mother  lay  united,  and  the  spire  pointing  up  to  Heaven,  the 
symbol  of  the  hopes  of  those  who  consigned  the  ashes  to  the 
dust ; in  his  ear  rang  the  bells,  pealing,  as  on  a sabbath  day ; 
far  fled  all  the  visions  of  anxiety  and  awe  that  had  haunted 
and  convulsed  ; youth,  boyhood,  childhood,  came  back  to  him 
with  innocent  desires  and  hopes  ; he  thought  he  fell  upon  his 
knees  to  pray.  He  woke — he  woke  in  delicious  tears ; he 
felt  that  the  Phantom  was  fled  forever.  He  looked  round — 
Zanoni  was  gone.  On  the  table  lay  these  lines,  the  ink  yet 
wet — 

I will  find  ways  and  means  for  thy  escape.  At  nightfall, 
as  the  clock  strikes  nine,  a boat  shall  wait  thee  on  the  river 
before  this  house  : the  boatman  will  guide  thee  to  a retreat 
where  thou  mayst  rest  in  safety,  till  the  Reign  of  Terror, 
which  nears  its  close,  be  past.  Think  no  more  of  the  sen- 
sual love  that  lured,  and  well-nigh  lost,  thee.  It  betrayed, 
and  would  have  destroyed.  Thou  wilt  regain  thy  land  in 
safety — long  years  yet  spared  to  thee  to  muse  over  the  past, 
and  to  redeem  it.  For  thy  future,  be  thy  dream  thy  guide, 
and  thy  tears  thy  baptism.” 

The  Englishman  obeyed  the  injunctions  of  the  letter,  and 
found  their  truth. 


CHAPTER  X. 

Quid  mirare  meas  tot  in  uno  corpore  formas  ? • 

Propert. 

ZANONI  TO  MEJNOUR. 

• •>»#**« 

**  She  is  in  one  of  their  prisons — their  inexorable  prisons. 
It  is  Robespierre’s  order — I have  tracked  the  cause  to  Glyn- 
don.  This,  then,  made  that  terrible  connection  between  theif 


♦ Why  wonder  that  1 have  so  many  forms  in  a single  body  ? 


3S2 


ZAMONL 


fates  which  I could  not  unravel,  but  which  (till  severed  as  it 
now  is)  wrapped  Glyndon  himself  in  the  same  cloud  that  con- 
cealed her.  In  prison — in  prison  ! — it  is  the  gate  of  the  grave  \ 
Her  trial,  and  the  inevitable  execution  that  fellows  such  trial, 
is  the  third  day  from  this.  The  tyrant  has  fixed  all  his  schemes 
of  slaughter  for  the  loth  of  Thermidor.  While  the  deaths  of 
the  unoffending  strike  awe  to  the  city,  his  satellites  are  to 
massacre  his  foes.  There  is  but  one  hope  left — that  the 
Power  which  now  dooms  the  doomer  may  render  me  an  instru- 
ment to  expedite  his  fall.  But  two  days  left — two  days  ! In  all 
my  wealth  of  time  I see  but  two  days  ; all  beyond — darkness — 
solitude.  I may  save  her  yet.  The  tyrant  shall  fall  the  day 
before  that  which  he  has  set  apart  for  slaughter ! For  the 
first  time  I mix  among  the  broils  and  stratagems  of  men,  and 
my  mind  leaps  up  from  my  despair,  armed  and  eager  for  the 
contest.” 

-M.  ^ ^ ^ 

^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ W 

A crowd  had  gathered  round  the  Rue  St.  Honore — a young 
man  was  just  arrested  by  the  order  of  Robespierre.  He  was 
known  to  be  in  the  service  of  Tallien,  that  hostile  leader  in 
the  Convention,  whom  the  tyrant  had  hitherto  trembled  to 
attack.  This  incident  had  therefore  produced  a greater  excite- 
ment than  a circumstance  so  customary  as  an  arrest  in  the 
Reign  of  Terror  might  be  supposed  to  create.  Among  the 
crowd  were  many  friends  of  Tallien,  many  foes  to  the  tyrant, 
many  weary  of  beholding  the  tiger  dragging  victim  after 
victim  to  its  den.  Hoarse,  foreboding  murmurs  were  heard  ; 
fierce  eyes  glared  upon  the  officers  as  they  seized  their  pris- 
oner ; and  though  they  did  not  yet  dare  openly  to  resist,  those 
in  the  rear  pressed  on  those  behind,  and  encumbered  the 
path  of  the  captive  and  his  captors.  The  young  man  strug- 
gled hard  for  escape,and,  by  a violent  effort,  at  last  wrenched 
himself  from  the  grasp.  The  crowd  made  way,  and  closed 
round  to  protect  him,  as  he  dived  and  darted  through  their 
ranks ; but  suddenly  the  trampling  of  horses  was  heard  at 
hand — the  savage  Henriot  and  his  troop  were  bearing 
down  upon  the  mob.  The  crowd  gave  way  in  alarm,  and  the 
prisoner  was  again  seized  by  one  of  the  partizans  of  the  Dic- 
tator. At  that  moment  a voice  whispered  the  prisoner — 
“ Thou  hast  a letter,  which,  if  found  on  thee,  ruins  thy  last 
hope.  Give  it  to  me  ! I will  bear  it  to  Tallien.”  The  pris- 
oner, turning  in  amaze,  read  something  that  encouraged  him 
in  the  eyes  of  the  stranger  who  thus  accosted  him  ; the  troop 
were  now  on  the  spot  j the  Jacobin  who  had  seized  the  pri» 


ZANOm. 


353 


oner  released  hold  of  him  for  a moment,  to  escape  the  hoofs 
of  the  horses — in  that  moment  the  opportunity  was  found — 
the  stranger  had  disappeared. 

Ub  -iff 

^ ^ ^ "TT  *Tr  •Tr 

At  the  house  of  Tallien  the  principal  foes  of  the  tyrant 
were  assembled.  Common  danger  made  common  fellowship. 
All  factions  laid  aside  their  feuds  for  the  hour,  to  unite 
against  the  formidable  man  who  was  marching  over  all 
factions  to  his  gory  throne.  There,  was  bold  Lecointre,  the 
declared  enemy — there,  creeping  Barrere,  who  would  recon- 
cile all  extremes,  the  hero  of  the  cowards ; Barras,  calm 
and  collected — Collot  d’Herbois,  breathing  wrath  and  venge< 
ance,  and  seeing  not  that  the  crimes  of  Robespierre  alone 
sheltered  his  own. 

The  council  was  agitated  and  irresolute.  The  awe  which 
the  uniform  success  and  the  prodigious  energy  of  Robespierre 
excited  still  held  the  greater  part  under  its  control.  Tallien, 
whom  the  tyrant  most  feared,  and  who  alone  could  give  head 
and  substance  and  direction  to  so  many  contradictory 
passions,  was  too  sullied  by  the  memory  of  his  own  cruelties, 
not  to  feel  embarrassed  by  his  position  as  the  champion  of 
mercy.  “ It  is  true,”  he  said,  after  an  animating  harangue 
from  Lecointre,  “ that  the  Usurper  menaces  us  ml.  But  he 
is  still  so  beloved  by  his  mobs — still  so  supported  by  his 
Jacobins — better  delay  open  hostilities  till  the  hour  is  more 
ripe.  To  attempt  and  not  succeed  is  to  give  us,  bound  hand 
and  foot,  to  the  guillotine.  Every  day  his  power  must 

decline.  Procrastination  is  our  best  ally ” While  yet 

speaking,  and  while  yet  producing  the  effect  of  water  on 
the  fire,  it  was  announced  that  a stranger  demanded  to  see 
him  instantly  on  business  that  brooked  no  delay. 

“ I am  not  at  leisure,”  said  the  orator,  impatiently.  The 
servant  placed  a note  on  the  table.  Tallien  opened  it,  and 
found  these  words  in  pencil,  ‘‘  From  the  prison  of  Teresa  de 
Fontenai.”  He  turned  pale,  started  up,  and  hastened  to  the 
anteroom,  where  he  beheld  a face  entirely  strange  to  him. 

“ Hope  of  France ! ” said  the  visitor  to  him,  and  the  very 
sound  of  his  voice  went  straight  to  the  heart — “ your  servant 
is  arrested  in  the  streets.  I have  saved  your  life,  and  that  of 
your  wife  who  will  be.  I bring  to  you  this  letter  from  Teresa 
de  Fontenai.” 

Tallien,  with  a trembling  hand,  opened  the  letter,  and 
read — “ Am  I forever  to  implore  you  in  vain  ? Again  and 
again  I say — Lose  not  an  hour,  if  you  value  my  life  and  your 

23 


354 


ZANOm. 


own.  My  trial  and  death  are  fixed  the  third  day  from  this— ^ 
the  loth  Thermidor.  Strike  while  it  is  yet  time — strike  the 
monster  ! — you  have  two  days  yet.  If  you  fail — if  you 
procrastinate — see  me  for  the  last  time  as  I pass  your 
windows  to  the  guillotine  ! ” 

“ Her  trial  will  give  proof  against  you,”  said  the  stranger. 

Her  death  is  the  herald  of  your  own.  Fear  not  the 
populace — the  populace  would  have  rescued  your  servant. 
Fear  not  Robespierre — he  gives  himself  to  your  hands.  To- 
morrow he  comes  to  the  Convention — to-morrow  you  must 
cast  the  last  throw  for  his  head  or  your  own.” 

“ To-morrow  he  comes  to  the  Convention ! And  who  are 
you,  that  know  so  well  what  is  concealed  from  me  ” 

“ A man,  likd  you,  who  would  save  the  woman  he  loves.” 

Before  Tallien  could  recover  his  surprise,  the  visitor  was  gone. 

Back  went  the  Avenger  to  his  conclave,  an  altered  man. 
“ I have  heard  tidings — no  matter  what,”  he  cried,  “ that 
have  changed  my  purpose.  On  the  loth  we  are  destined  to 
the  guillotine.  I revoke  my  counsel  for  delay.  Robespierre 
comes  to  the  Convention  to-morrow ; there  we  must  confront 
and  crush  him.  From  the  Mountain  shall  frown  against  him 
the  grim  shade  of  Danton — from  the  Plain  shall  rise,  in  their 
bloody  cerements,  the  specters  of  Vergniaud  and  Condorcet. 
Frapp ons  ! ” 

Frappons  !'^  cried  even  Barrere,  startled  into  energy  by 
the  new  daring  of  his  colleague.  Frapp  ons  ! it  n'y  a que  les 

marts  qui  ne  revienfient pasP 

It  was  observable  (and  the  fact  may  be  found  in  one  of 
the  memoirs  of  the  time)  that  during  that  day  and  night  (the 
7 th  Thermidor),  a stranger  to  all  the  previous  events  of  that 
stormy  time  was  seen  in  various  parts  of  the  city — in  the 
cafes,  the  clubs,  the  haunts  of  the  various  factions — that,  to 
the  astonishment  and  dismay  of  his  hearers,  he  talked  aloud 
of  the  crimes  of  Robespierre,  and  predicted  his  coming  fall ; 
and,  as  he  spoke,  he  stirred  up  the  hearts  of  men,  he  loosed 
the  bonds  of  their  fear,  he  inflamed  them  with  unwonted 
rage  and  daring.  But  what  surprised  them  most  was,  that  no 
voice  replied — no  hand  was  lifted  against  him — no  minion,  even 
of  the  tyrant,  cried,  “ Arrest  the  Traitor  1 ” In  that  impunity 
men  read,  as  in  a book,  that  the  populace  had  deserted  the 
man  of  blood. 

Once  only  a fierce,  brawny  Jacobin  sprung  up  from  the 
table  at  which  he  sat,  drinking  deep,  and,  approaching  the 
Stranger,  said,  “ I seize  thee,  in  the  name  of  the  Republic.” 


ZANONL 


35S 


“ Citizen  Aristides,”  answered  the  stranger,  in  a whisper, 
go  to  the  lodgings  of  Robespierre  ; he  is  from  home,  and 
in  the  left  pocket  of  the  vest,  which  he  cast  off  not  an  hour 
since,  thou  wilt  find  a paper;  when  thou  hast  read  that, 
return.  I will  await  thee  : and  if  thou  wouldst  then  seize 
me,  I will  go  without  a struggle.  Look  round  on  these 
lowering  brows : touch  me  now,  and  thou  wilt  be  torn  to 
pieces.” 

The  Jacobin  felt  as  if  compelled  to  obey  against  his  will. 
He  went  forth  muttering ; ^he  returned ; the  stranger  was 
still  there.  “ Milk  tonnerres^J'  he  said  to  him — “ I thank 
thee  ; the  poltroon  had  my  name  in  his  list  for  the  guillotine.” 
With  that  the  Jacobin  Aristides  sprung  upon  the  table,  and 
shouted,  “ Death  to  the  Tyrant ! ” 


CHAPTER  XI. 

Le  lendemain,  8 Thermidor,  Robespierre  se  decida  h.  prononcer  son  fameuj^ 
discours.* — Thiers,  Ilisi.  de  la  Revolution. 

The  morning  rose — the  8th  of  Thermidor  (July  26). 
Robespierre  has  gone  to  the  Convention.  He  has  gone,  with 
his  labored  speech ; he  has  gone,  with  his  phrases  of  philan- 
thropy and  virtue ; he  has  gone  to  single  out  his  prey.  All 
his  agents  are  prepared  for  his  reception ; the  fierce  St.  Just 
has  arrived  from  the  armies,  to  second  his  courage  and 
inflame  his  wrath.  His  ominous  apparition  prepares  the 
audience  for  the  crisis.  “ Citizens  ! ” screeched  the  shrill 
voice  of  Robespierre — “ others  have  placed  before  you  flatter- 
ing pictures ; I come  to  announce  to  you  useful  truths. 

* * * * * * 

And  they  attribute  to  me,  to  me  alone ! — whatever  of  harsh 
or  evil  is  committed ; it  is  Robespierre  who  wishes  it ; it  is 
Robespierre  who  ordains  it.  Is  there  a new  tax  — it  is 
Robespierre  who  ruins  you.  They  call  me  tyrant ! — and 

why  ? Because  I have  acquired  some  influence  ; but  how } — 
in  speaking  truth  ; and  who  pretends  that  truth  is  to  be  with- 
out force  in  the  mouths  of  the  Representatives  of  the  French 
people  ^ Doubtless,  truth  has  its  power,  its  rage,  its  despot- 
ism, its  accents,  touching — terrible,  which  resound  in  the 
pure  heart,  as  in  the  guilty  conscience  ; and  which  Falsehood 

* The  next  day,  8 Thermidor,  Robespierre  resolved  to  deliver  his  celebrated 
discourse. 


356 


ZANONI. 


can  no  more  imitate  than  Salmoneus  could  forge  the  thun6er« 
bolts  of  Heaven.  What  am  I,  whom  they  accuse  ? A slave 
of  liberty — a living  martyr  of  the  Republic — the  victim,  as 
the  enemy  of  crime ! All  ruffianism  affronts  me ; and 
actions  legitimate  in  others  are  crimes  in  me.  It  is  enough 
to  know  me  to  be  calumniated.  ‘ It  is  in  my  very  zeal  that 
they  discover  my  guilt.  Take  from  me  my  conscience,  and  I 
should  be  the  most  miserable  of  men  ! ” 

He  paused  ; and  Couthon  wiped  his  eyes,  and  St.  Just 
murmured  applause,  as  with  stern  looks  he  gazed  on  the 
rebellious  Mountain  ; and  there  was  a dead,  mournful,  and 
chilling  silence  through  the  audience.  The  touching  senti- 
ment woke  no  echo. 

The  orator  cast  his  eyes  around.  Ho  ! he  will  soon  arouse 
that  apathy.  He  proceeds ; he  praises,  he  pities  himself  no 
more.  He  denounces — he  accuses.  Overflooded  with  his 
venom,  he  vomits  it  forth  on  all.  At  home,  abroad,  finances, 
war — on  all ! Shriller  and  sharper  rose  his  voice — 

“ A conspiracy  exists  against  the  Public  Liberty.  It  owes 
its  strength  to  a criminal  coalition  in  the  very  bosom  of  the 
Convention ; it  has  accomplices  in  the  bosom  of  the  Commit- 
tee of  Public  Safety What  is  the  remedy  to  this  evil } 

To  punish  the  traitors  ; to  purify  this  committee ; to  crush  all 
factions  by  the  weight  of  the  National  Authority;  to  raise 
upon  their  ruins  the  power  of  Liberty  and  Justice.  Such 
are  the  principles  of  that  Reform.  Must  I be  ambitious  to 
profess  them  ? — then  the  principles  are  proscribed,  and  Tyr- 
anny reignf>  among  us ! For  what  can  you  object  to  a man 
who  is  in  the  right,  and  has  at  least  this  knowledge — he 
knows  how  to  die  for  his  native  land  ! I am  made  to  combat 
crime,  and  not  to  govern  it.  The  time,  alas ! is  not  yet 
arrived  when  men  of  worth  can  serve  with  impunity  their 
country.  So  long  as  the  knaves  rule,  the  defenders  of  liberty 
will  be  only  the  proscriped.” 

For  two  hours,  through  that  cold  and  gloomy  audience 
shrilled  the  Death-speech.  In  silence  it  began,  in  silence 
closed.  The  enemies  of  the  orator  were  afraid  to  express 
resentment : they  knew  not  yet  the  exact  balance  of  power. 
His  partisans  were  afraid  to  approve ; they  knew  not  whom 
of  their  own  friends  and  relations  the  accusations  were  de- 
signed to  single  forth.  “ Take  care  ! ” whispered  each  to  each, 

it  is  thou  whom  he  threatens.”  But  silent  though  the 
audience,  it  was,  at  the  first,  well-nigh  subdued.  There  was 
Still  about  this  terrible  man  the  spell  of  an  over-mastering 


ZANONi. 


357 


will.  Always — though  not  what  is  called  a great  orator — res- 
olute, and  sovereign  in  the  use  of  words,  words  seemed  as 
things  when  uttered  by  one  who  with  a nod  moved  the  troops 
of  Henriot,  and  influenced  the  judgment  of  Rene  Dumas, 
grim  President  of  the  Tribunal.  Lecointre  of  Versailles  rose, 
and  there  was  an  anxious  movement  of  attention ; for  Lecoin- 
tre was  one  of  the  fiercest  foes  of  the  tyrant.  What  was  the 
dismay  of  the  Tallien  faction — ^what  the  complacent  smile  of 
Couthon,  when  Lecointre  demanded  only  that  the  oration 
should  be  printed ! All  seemed  paralyzed.  At  length  Bour- 
don de  rOise,  whose  name  was  doubly  marked  in  the  black 
list  of  the  Dictator,  stalked  to  the  tribune,  and  moved  the 
bold  counter-resolution,  that  the  speech  be  referred  to  the 
two  committees  whom  that  very  speech  accused.  Still  no 
applause  from  the  conspirators,  they  sat  torpid  as  frozen  men. 
The  shrinking  Barrhre,  ever  on  the  prudent  side,  looked 
round  before  he  rose.  He  rises  and  sides  with  Lecointre  ! 
Then  Couthon  seized  the  occasion,  and  from  his  seat  (a  privi- 
lege permitted  alone  to  the  paralytic  philanthropist),!  and 
with  his  melodious  voice  sought  to  convert  the  crisis  into  a 
triumph.  He  demanded,  not  only  that  the  harangue  should 
be  printed,  but  sent  to  all  the  communes  and  all  the  armies. 
It  was  necessary  to  soothe  a wronged  and  ulcerated  heart. 
Deputies,  the  most  faithful,  had  been  accused  of  shedding 
blood.  “Ah!  if  he  had  contributed  to  the  death  of  one  inno- 
cent man,  he  should  immolate  himself  with  grief.”  Beautiful 
tenderness  ! — and  while  he  spoke,  he  fondled  the  spaniel  in 
his  bosom.  Bravo,  Couthon  1 Robespierre  triumphs  ! The 
Reign  of  Terror  shall  endure  ! — The  old  submission  settles 
dove-like  back  in  the  assembly  I They  vote  the  printing  of 
the  Death-speech,  and  its  transmission  to  all  the  municipali- 
ties. From  the  benches  of  the  Mountain,  Tallien,  alarmed, 
dismayed,  impatient,  and  indignant,  cast  his  gaze  where  sat 
the  strangers  admitted  to  hear  the  debates.  And,  suddenly, 
he  met  the  eyes  of  the  Unknown  who  had  brought  to  him  the 
letter  from  Teresa  de  Fontenai  the  preceding  day.  The 
eyes  fascinated  him  as  he  gazed.  In  after  times,  he  often 
said,  that  their  regard,  fixed,  earnest,  half-reproachful,  and 
yet  cheering  and  triumphant,  filled  him  with  new  life  and 
courage.  They  spoke  to  his  heart  as  the  trumpet  speaks  to 
the  war-horse.  He  moved  from  his  seat ; he  whispered  with 

t M.  Thiers,  in  his  History,  vol.  iv.  p.  79,  makes  a curious  blunder : he  says. 
''  Couthon  s'elance  a la  tribune.”  (Couthon  darted  toward  the  tribune.)  Poor 
Couthon  ! vtrhose  half  body  was  deadi  and  who  was  always  wheeled  in  his  chair  into 
the  Convention , and  spoke  sitting. 


ZAmm. 


his  allies : the  spirit  he  had  drawn  in  was  contagious  .*  the 
men  whom  Robespierre  especially  had  denounced,  and  who 
saw  the  sword  over  their  heads,  woke  from  their  torpid 
trance.  Vadier,  Cambon,  Billaud-Varennes,  Panis,  Amar, 
rose  at  once — all  at  once  demanded  speech.  Vadier  is  first 
heard,  the  rest  succeed.  It  burst  forth,  the  Mountain,  with 
its  fires  and  consuming  lava ! flood  upon  flood  they  rush,  a 
legion  of  Ciceros  upon  the  startled  Cataline  1 Robespierre 
falters — hesitates — would  qualify,  retract.  They  gather  new 
courage  from  his  new  fears  ; they  interrupt  him  ; they  drown 
his  voice  ; they  demand  the  reversal  of  the  motion.  Amar 
moves  again  that  the  speech  be  referred  to  the  Committees 
— to  the  Committees — to  his  enemies  ! Confusion,  and  noise 
and  clamor  ! Robespierre  wraps  himself  in  silent  and  superb 
disdain.  Pale,  defeated,  but  not  yet  destroyed,  he  stands,  a 
storm  in  the  midst  of  storm  ! 

The  motion  is  carried.  All  men  foresee  in  that  defeat 
the  Dictator’s  downfall  A solitary ‘cry  rose  from  the  galler- 
ies ; it  was  caught  up  ; it  circled  through  the  hall — the  audi 
€nce : “ A bus  le  tyrant  / Vive  la  Republique  / ” • 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Aupr^s  d’un  corps  aussi  avili  que  la  Convention  il  restait  des  chances  pour  qua 
Robespierre  sorttt  vainqueur  de  cette  lutte.f — Lacretelle,  voLxu. 

As  Robespierre  left  the  hall,  there  was  a dead  and 
ominous'  silence  in  the  crowd  without.  The  herd,  in  every 
country,  side  with  success  ; and  the  rats  run  from  the  falling 
tower.  But  Robespierre,  who  wanted  courage,  never  wanted 
pride,  and  the  last  often  supplied  the  place  of  the  first , 
thoughtfully,  and  with  an  impenetrable  brow,  he  passed 
through  the  throng,  leaning  on  St.  Just,  Payan  and  his  brother 
following  him. 

As  they  got  into  the  open  space,  Robespierre  abruptly 
broke  the  silence. 

“ How  many  heads  were  to  fall  upon  the  tenth  ? 

“ Eighty,”  replied  Payan. 

“ Ah,  we  must  not  tarry  so  long ; a day  may  lose  an 
empire  I terrorism  must  serve  us  yet ! 

Down  with  the  tyrant ! Hurrah  for  the  republic  I 
+ Among  a body  so  debased  as  the  Convention . there  stiU  remained  some  chancel 
that  Robespierre  would  come  off  victor  in  the  struggle. 


ZANOm, 


359 


He  was  silent  a few  moments,  and  his  eyes  roved  suspi- 
ciously through  the  street. 

“ St.  Just,”  he  said,  abruptly,  “ they  have  not  found  this 
Englishman,  whose  revelations  or  whose  trial  would  have 
crushed  the  Amars  and  the  Talliens.  No,  no  ! my  Jacobins 
themselves  are  growing  dull  and  blind.  But  they  have  seized 
a woman — only  a woman  ! ” 

“ A woman’s  hand  stabbed  Marat,”  said  St.  Just.  Robes- 
pierre stopped  short,  and  breathed  hard. 

“ St.  Just,”  said  he,  “when  this  peril  is  past,  we  will  found 
the  Reign  of  Peace.  There  shall  be  homes  and  gardens  set 
apart  for  the  old.  David  is  already  designing  the  porticos. 
Virtuous  men  shall  be  appointed  to  instruct  the  young.  All 
vice  and  disorder  shall  be  not  exterminated ; no,  no ! only 
banished  1 We  must  not  die  yet.  Posterity  can  not  judge  us 
till  our  work  is  done.  We  have  recalltd  Z’^tre  Supreme ; we 
must  now  remodel  this  corrupted  world.  All  shall  be  love  and 
brotherhood ; and — ho  ! Simon  ! Simon  ! — hold  ! Your  pen* 
cil,  St.  Just!”  And  Robespierre  wrote  hastily.  “This  to 
Citizen  President  Dumas.  Go  with  it  quick,  Simon.  Thes^ 
eighty  heads  must  fall  to-morrow — to-morrow^  Simon.  Duma-« 
will  advance  their  trial  a day.  I will  write  to  Fouquier  Tin 
ville,  the  public  accuser.  We  meet  at  the  Jacobins  to-night 
Simon ; there,  we  will  denounce  the  Convention  itself ; thert 
we  will  rally  round  us  the  last  friends  of  liberty  and  France,^ 

A shout  was  heard  in  the  distance  behind — “ Vive.la  Rkpub 
liqueP^ 

The  tyrant’s  eye  shot  a vindictive  gleam.  “ The  republic  I 
— faugh!  We  did  not  destroy  the  throne  of  a thousand 
years  for  that  canaille 

The  trials  the  execution  of  the  victims  is  advanced  a day  / By 
the  aid  of  the  mysterious  intelligence  that  had  guided  and 
animated  him  hitherto,  Zanoni  learned  that  his  arts  had  been 
in  vain.  He  knew  that  Viola  was  safe,  if  she  could  but 
survive  an  hour  the  life  of  the  tyrant.  He  knew  that  Robes- 
pierre’s hours  were  numbered ; that  the  loth  of  Thermidor, 
on  which  he  had  originally  designed  the  execution  of  his  last 
victims,  would  see  himself  at  the  scaffold.  Zanoni  had  toiled, 
had  schemed  for  the  fall  of  the  Butcher  and  his  reign.  To 
what  end  ? A single  word  from  the  tyrant  had  baffled  the 
result  of  all.  The  execution  of  Viola  is  advanced  a day, 
Vain  seer,  who  wouldst  make  thyself  the  instrument  of  the 
Eternal,  the  very  dangers  that  now  beset  the  tyrant  but 
expediate  the  doom  of  his  victims  I To-morrow,  eighty  headSj 


36o 


ZANOm, 


and  her  whose  pillow  has  been  thy  heart  1 Tomorrow  I and 
Maximilien  is  safe  to-night ! 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

Erde  mag  zuriick  in  Erde  stauben ; 

Fliegt  der  Geist  doch  aus  dem  morschen  Haus 
Seine  Asche  mag  der  Sturmwind  treiben, 

Sein  Leben  dauert  ewig  aus ! * 

Elegie. 

To-morrow  ! — and  it  is  already  twilight.  One  after  one, 
the  gentle  stars  come  smiling  through  the  heaven.  The 
Seine,  in  its  slow  waters,  yet  trembles  with  the  last  kiss  of 
the  rosy  day ; and  still,  in  the  ‘ blue  sky,  gleams  the  spire  of 
Notre  Dame ; and  still,  in  the  blue  sky,  looms  the  guillotine 
by  the  Barriere  du  Trbne.  Turn  to  that  time-worn  building, 
once  the  church  and  the  convent  of  the  Freres-PrhheurSy 
known  by  the  then  holy  name  of  Jacobins;  there  the  new 
Jacobins  hold  their  club.  There,  in  that  oblong  hall,  once 
the  library  of  the  peaceful  monks,  assemble  the  idolaters  of 
Saint  Robespierre.  Two  immense  tribunes,  raised  at  either 
end,  contain  the  lees  and  dregs  of  the  atrocious  populace — 
the  majority  of  that  audience  consisting  of  the  furies  of  the 
guillotine  {furies  de  guillotine).  In  the  midst  of  the  hall  are 
the  bureau  and  chair  of  the  president — the  chair  long  pre- 
served by  the  piety  of  the  monks  as  the  relic  of  St.  Thomas 
Aquinas  ! Above  this  seat  scowls  the  harsh  bust  of  Brutus. 
An  iron  lamp,  and  two  branches,  scatter  over  the  vast  room  a 
murky,  fuliginous  ray,  beneath  the  light  of  which  the  fierce 
faces  of  that  Pandaemonium  seem  more  grim  and  haggard. 
There,  from  the  orator’s  tribune,  shrieks  the  shrill  wrath  of 
Robespierre ! 

Meanwhile,  all  is  chaos,  disorder,  half-daring  and  half- 
cowardice, in  the  Committee  of  his  foes.  Rumors  fly  from 
street  to  street,  from  haunt  to  haunt,  from  house  to  house. 
The  swallows  flit  low,  and  the  cattle  group  together  before 
the  storm.  And  above  this  roar  of  the  lives  and  things  of 
the  little  hour,  alone  in  his  chamber,  stood  he  on  whose 
starry  youth — symbol  of  the  imperishable  bloom  of  the  calm 
Ideal  amid  the  moldering  Actual — the  clouds  of  ages  had 
rolled  in  vain. 

* Earth  may  crumble  back  into  earth  ; the  Spirit  will  still  escape  from  its  frail 
tenement.  The  wind  of  the  storm  may  scatter  his  ashes;  his  being  endures  forever 


1 


Lzmm,  ' 361 

All  those  exertions  which  ordinary  wit  and  courage  could  sug- 
gest had  been  tried  in  vain.  All  such  exertions  were  in  vain, 
where,  in  that  Saturnalia  of  death,  a life  was  the  object.  Nothing 
but  the  fall  of  Robespierre  could  have  saved  his  victims  ; 
now,  too  late,  that  fall  would  only  serve  to  avenge. 

Once  more,  in  that  last  agony  of  excitement  and  despair, 
the  Seer  had  plunged  into  solitude,  to  invoke  again  the  aid  or 
counsel  of  those  mysterious  intermediates  between  earth  and 
heaven  who  had  renounced  the  intercourse  of  the  spirit  when 
subjected  to  the  common  bondage  of  the  mortal.  In  the 
intense  desire  and  anguish  of  his  heart,  perhaps,  lay  a power 
not  yet  called  forth ; for  who  has  not  felt  that  the  sharpness 
of  extreme  grief  cuts  and  grides  away  many  of  those  strongest 
bonds  of  infirmity  and  doubt  wdiich  bind  down  the  souls  of 
men  to  the  cabined  darkness  of  the  hour ; and  that  from  the 
cloud  and  thunder-storm  often  swoops  the  Olympian  eagle 
that  can  ravish  us  aloft ! ” 

And  the  invocation  was  heard — the  bondage  of  sense  was 
rent  away  from  the  visual  mind.  He  looked,  and  saw — no, 
not  the  being  he  had  called,  with  its  limbs  of  light  and  unut- 
terably tranquil  smile — not  his  familiar,  Adon-Ai,  the  Son  of 
Glory  and  the  Star — but  the  Evil  Omen,  the  dark  Chimera, 
the  implacable  foe,  with  exultation  and  malice  burning  in  its 
hell-lit  eyes.  The  Specter,  no  longer  cowering  and  retreating 
into  shadow,  rose  before  him,  gigantic  and  erect, — the  face, 
whose  veil  no  mortal  hand  had  ever  raised,  was  still  concealed, 
but  the  form  was  more  distinct,  corporeal,  and  cast  from  it,  as 
an  atmosphere,  horror,  and  rage,  and  awe.  . As  an  iceberg, 
the  breath  of  that  presence  froze  the  air ; as  a cloud,  it  filled 
the  chamber,  and  blackened  the  stars  from  heaven. 

“ Lo  ! ” said  Its  voice,  “ I am  here  once  more.  Thou  hast 
robbed  me  of  a meaner  prey.  Now  exorcise  thyself  from  my 
power  ! Thy  life  has  left  thee,  to  live  in  the  heart  of  a daugh- 
ter of  the  charnel  and  the  worm.  In  that  life  I come  to  thee 
with  my  inexorable  tread.  Thou  art  returned  to  the  Thresh- 
old— thou,  whose  steps  have  trodden  the  verges  of  the  Infi- 
nite ! And,  as  the  goblin  of  its  phantasy  seizes  on  a child 
in  the  dark, — mighty  one,  who  wouldst  conquer  Death,  I seke 
on  thee  ! ’’ 

“ Back  to  thy  thraldom,  slave  ! if  thou  art  come  to  the 
voice  that  called  thee  not,  it  is  again  not  to  command,  but  to 
obey  ! Thou,  from  whose  whisper  I gained  the  boons  of  the 
lives  lovelier  and  dearer  than  my  own — thou, — I command 
thee,  not  by  spell  and  charm^  but  by  the  force  of  a soyl 


362 


ZANOm, 


mightier  than  the  malice  of  thy  being, — thou  serve  me  yet, 
and  speak  again  the  secret  that  can  rescue  the  lives  thou 
hast,  by  permission  of  the  Universal  Master,  permitted  me  to 
retain  awhile  in  the  temple  of  the  clay ! ” 

Brighter  and  more  devouringly  burnt  the  glare  from  those 
lurid  eyes ; more  visible  and  colossal  yet  rose  the  dilating 
shape ; a yet  fiercer  and  more  disdainful  hate  spoke  in 
the  voice  that  answered — “ Didst  thou  think  that  my  boon 
would  be  other  than  thy  curse  ? Happy  for  thee  hadst  thou 
mourned  over  the  deaths  which  come  by  the  gentle  hand  of 
Nature — hadst  thou  never  known  how  the  name  of  mother 
consecrates  the  face  of  beauty,  and  never,  bending  over  thy 
first-born,  felt  the  imperishable  sweetness  of  a father’s  love  ! 
They  are  saved,  for  what  ? — the  mother,  for  the  death  of  vio- 
lence, and  shame,  and  blood — for  the  doomsman’s  hand  to 
put  aside  that  shining  hair  which  has  entangled  thy  bride- 
groom kisses,  the  child,  first  and  last  of  thine  offspring,  in 
whom  thou  didst  hope  to  found  a race  that  should  hear  with 
thee  the  music  of  celestial  harps,  and  float,  by  the  side  of 
thy  familiar,  Adon-Ai,  through  the  azure  rivers  of  joy, — the 
child,  to  live  on  a few  days,  as  a fungus  in  a burial-vault,  a 
thing  of  the  loathsome  dungeon,  dying  of  cruelty,  and  neg- 
lect, and  famine.  Ha  ! ha  ! thou  who  wouldst  baffle  Death, 
learn  how  the  deathless  die  if  they  dare  to  love  the  mortal. 
Now,  Chaldaean,  behold  my  boons  ! Now  I seize  and  wrap 
thee  with  the  pestilence  of  my  presence ; now,  evermore,  till 
thy  long  race  is  run,  mine  eyes  shall  glow  into  thy  brain,  and 
mine  arms  shall  clasp  thee,  when  thou  wouldst  take  the  wings 
of  the  Morning,  and  flee  from  the  embrace  of  Night ! ” 

“ I tell  thee,  no  ! And  again  I compel  thee,  speak  and 
answer  to  the  lord  who  can  command  his  slave.  I know, 
though  my  lore  fails  me,  and  the  reeds  on  which  I leaned 
pierced  my  side,  I know  yet  that  it  is  written  that  the  life  of 
which  I question  can  be  saved  from  the  headsman.  Thou 
wrappest  her  future  in  the  darkness  of  thy  shadow,  but  thou 
canst  not  shape  it.  Thou  mayst  foreshow  the  antidote ; 
thou  canst  not  effect  the  bane.  From  thee  I wring  the  secret, 
though  it  torture  thee  to  name  it.  I approach  thee — I look 
dauntless  into  thine  eyes.  The  soul  that  loves  can  dare  all 
things.  Shadow,  I defy  thee,  and  compel  I ” 

The  specter  waned  and  recoiled.  Like  a vapor  that  les- 
sens as  the  sun  pierces  and  pervades  it,  the  form  shrunk  cow- 
ering and  dwarfed  in  the  dimmer  distance,  and  through  the 
casement  again  rushed  the  stars. 


ZANONL 


363 


“ Yes,”  said  the  Voice,  with  a faint  and  hollow  accent, 
“ thou  canst  save  her  from  the  headsman ; for  it  is  written, 
that  sacrifice  can  save.  Ha ! ha ! ” And  the  shape  again 
suddenly  dilated  into  the  gloom  of  its  giant  stature,  and  its 
ghastly  laugh  exulted,  as  if  the  Foe,  a moment  baffled,  had 
regained  its  might.  “ Ha  ! ha  ! — thou  canst  save  her  life,  if 
thou  wilt  sacrifice  thine  own  ! Is  it  for  this  thou  hast  lived 
on  through  crumbling  empires  and  countless  generations  of 
thy  race  ? At  last  shall  Death  reclaim  thee  ? Wouldst  thou 
save  her? — die  for  her  ! Fall,  O stately  column,  over  which 
stars  yet  unformed  may  gleam — fall,  that  the  herb  at  thy  base 
may  drink  a few  hours  longer  the  sunlight  and  the  dews  ! 
Silent ! Art  thou  ready  for  the  sacrifice  ? See,  the  moon 
moves  up  through  Heaven.  Beautiful  and  wise  one,  wilt  thou 
bid  her  smile  to-morrow  on  thy  headless  clay  ? ” 

“ Back  ! for  my  soul,  in  answering  thee  from  depths  where 
thou  canst  not  hear  it,  has  regained  its  glory ; and  I hear  the 
wings  of  Adon-Ai  gliding  musical  through  the  air.” 

He  spoke ; and,  with  a low  shriek  of  baffled  rage  and  hate, 
the  Thing  was  gone,  and  through  the  room  rushed  luminous 
and  sudden,  the  Presence  of  silvery  light. 

As  the  Heavenly  visitor  stood  in  the  atmosphere  of  his 
own  luster  and  looked  upon  the  face  of  the  Theurgist  with 
an  aspect  of  ineffable  tenderness  and  love,  all  space  seemed 
lighted  from  his  smile.  Along  the  blue  air  without,  from 
that  chamber  in  which  his  wings  had  halted,  to  the  farthest 
star  in  the  azure  distance,  it  seemed  as  if  the  track  of  his 
flight  were  visible,  by  a lengthened  splendor  in  the  air,  like 
the  column  of  moon-light  on  the  sea.  Like  the  flower  that 
diffuses  perfume  as  the  very  breath  of  its  life,  so  the  emana- 
tion of  that  presence  was  joy.  Over  the  world,  as  a million 
times  swifter  than  light,  than  electricity,  the  Son  of  Glory 
had  sped  his  way  to  the  side  of  love,  his  wings  had  scattered 
delight  as  the  morning  scatters  dew.  For  that  brief  moment. 
Poverty  had  ceased  to  mourn.  Disease  fled  from  its  prey,  and 
Hope  breathed  a dream  of  Heaven  into  the  darkness  of 
Despair. 

“ Thou  art  right,”  said  the  melodious  Voice.  “ Thy  cour- 
age has  restored  thy  power.  Once  more,  in  the  haunts  of 
earth,  thy  soul  charms  me  to  thy  side.  Wiser  now,  in  the 
moment  when  thou  comprehendest  Death,  than  when  thy 
unfettered  spirit  learned  the  solemn  mystery  of  Life  ; the 
human  affections  that  thralled  and  humbled  thee  awhile  bring 
to  thee,  in  these  last  hours  of  thy  mortality,  the  sublimest 


3^4 


ZAKONL 


heritage  of  thy  race — the  eternity  that  commences  from  the 
grave.” 

“ O Aidon-Ai”  said  the  Chaldaean,  as,  circumfused  in  the 
splendor  of  the  visitant,  a glory  more  radiant  than  human 
beauty  settled  round  his  form,  and  seemed  already  to  belong 
to  the  eternity  of  which  the  Bright  One  spoke,  “ as  men, 
before  they  die,  see  and  comprehend  the  enigmas  hidden 
from  them,  before,*  so  in  this  hour,  when  the  sacrifice  of  self 
to  another  brings  the  course  of  ages  to  its  goal,  I see  the 
littleness  of  Life,  compared  to  the  majesty  of  Death  ; but  oh. 
Divine  Consoler,  even  here,  even  in  thy  presence,  the  alfec- 
tions  that  inspire  me,  sadden.  To  leave  behind  me  in  this 
bad  world,  unaided,  unprotected,  those  for  whom  I die  ! the 
wife  ! the  child  ! — oh,  speak  comfort  to  me  in  this  ! ” 

“ And  what,”  said  the  visitor,  with  a slight  accent  of 
reproof  in  the  tone  of  celestial  pity,  what,  with  all  thy  wis- 
dom and  thy  starry  secrets,  with  all  thy  empire  of  the  past, 
and  thy  visions  of  the  future — what  art  thou  to  the  All-Di- 
recting and  Omniscient  ? Canst  thou  yet  imagine  that  thy 
presence  on  earth  can  give  to  the  hearts  thou  lovest  the  shel- 
ter which  the  humblest  take  from  the  wings  of  the  Presence 
that  lives  in  Heaven  ? Fear  not  thou  for  their  future. 
Whether  thou  live  or  die,  their  future  is  the  care  of  the  Most 
High  ! In  the  dungeon  and  on  the  scaffold  looks  everlasting 
the  Eye  of  HIM,  tenderer  than  thou  to  love,  wiser  than  thou 
to  guide,  mightier  than  thou  to  save  ! ” 

Zanoni  bowed  his  head ; and  when  he  looked  up  again,  the 
last  shadow  had  left  his  brow.  The  visitor  was  gone ; but 
still  the  glory  of  his  presence  seemed  to  shine  upon  the  spot ; 
still  the  solitary  air  seemed  to  murmur  with  tremulous  delight. 
And  thus  ever  shall  it  be  with  those  who  have  once,  detach- 
ing themselves  utterly  from  life,  received  the  visit  of  the 
Angel  Faith.  Solitude  and  space  retain  the  splendor,  and  it 
settles  like  a halo  round  their  graves. 

♦ The  greatest  Poet,  and  one  of  the  noblest  thinkers,  of  the  last  age,  said  on  hi* 
death-bed^,  “ Many  things  obscure  to  me  before,  now  clear  up,  and  become  visible." 
" See  the  Lirs  of  Schiller. 


ZANONL 


365 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Dann  zur  Blumenflor  der  Steme 
Aufgeschauet  liebewarm, 

Pass’  ihn  freundlich  Arm  in  Arm 
I'rag’  ihn  in  die  blaue  F erne. 

Uhland,  An  dm  Tod. 

Thvm  toward  the  Garden  of  the  Star 
Lift  up  thine  aspect  warm  with  love, 

And,  friend-like  link’d  through  space  afar, 

Mount  with  him,  arm  in  arm,  above. 

Uhland,  Poem  to  Death. 

He  Stood  upon  the  lofty  balcony  that  overlooked  the  quiet 
city.  Though,  afar,  the  fiercest  passions  of  men  were  at 
work  on  the  web  of  strife  and  doom,  all  that  gave  itself  to  his 
view  was  calm  and  still  in  the  rays  of  the  summer  moon,  for 
his  soul  was  wrapped  from  man  and  man’s  narrow  sphere, 
and  only  the  serener  glories  of  creation  were  present  to  the 
vision  of  the  Seer.  There  he  stood  alone  and  thoughtful,  to 
take  the  last  farewell  of  the  wondrous  life  that  he  had  known. 

Coursing  through  the  fields  of  space,  he  beaeld  the  gossa- 
mer shapes,  whose  choral  joys  his  spirit  had  so  often  shared. 
There,  group  upon  group,  they  circled  in  th\;  starry  silence, 
multiform  in  the  unimaginable  beauty  of  a being  fed  by 
ambrosial  dews  and  serenest  light.  In  his  trance,  all  the  uni- 
verse stretched  visible  beyond ; in  the  green  valleys  afar,  he 
saw  the  dances  of  the  fairies  ; in  the  bowels  of  the  mountains, 
he  beheld  the  race  that  breathe  the  lurid  air  of  the  volcanoes, 
and  hide  from  the  light  of  Heaven ; on  every  leaf  in  the  num- 
berless forests,  in  every  drop  of  the  unmeasured  seas,  he  sur- 
veyed its  separate  and  swarming  world  ; far  up,  in  the  far- 
thest blue,  he  saw  orb  upon  orb  ripening  into  shape,  and  plan- 
. ets  starting  from  the  central  fire,  to  run  their  day  of  ten 
thousrand  years.  For  everywhere  in  creation  is  the  breath  of 
the  Creator,  and  in  every  spot  where  the  breath  breathes  is 
life ! And  alone,  in  the  distance,  the  lonely  man  behv,M  his 
Magian  brother.  There,  at  work  with  his  numbers  and  his 
Cabala,  amid  the  wrecks  of  Rome,  passionless  and  calm,  sat 
in  his  cell  the  mystic  Mejnour ; living  on,  living  ever  while 
the  world  lasts,  indifferent  whether  his  knowledge  produce? 
weal  or  woe : a mechanical  agent  of  a more  tender  and  ^ 


ZANOm, 


.366 

wiser  Will,  that  guides  every  spring  to  its  inscrutable  designs. 
Living  on — living  ever — as  Science  that  cares  alone  for 
knowledge,  and  halts  not  to  consider  how  knowledge  advances 
happiness  ; how  Human  Improvement,  rushing  through  civil- 
ization, crushes  in  its  march  all  who  can  not  grapple  to  its 
wheels ; * ever,  with  its  Cabala  and  its  number,  lives  on  to 
change,  in  its  bloodless  movements,  the  face  of  the  habitable 
w'orld. 

And,  “ Oh,  farewell  to  life  I ” murmured  the  glorious 
dreamer.  “ Sweet,  Oh  life  ! hast  thou  been  to  me.  How 
fathomless  thy  joys — how  rapturously  has  my  soul  bounded 
forth  upon  the  upward  paths  ! To  him  who  forever  renews 
his  youth  in  the  clear  fount  of  Nature,  how  exquisite  is  the 
mere  happiness  to  be  ! Farewell,  ye  lamps  of  heaven,  and  ye 
million  tribes,  the  Populace  of  Air.  Not  a mote  in  the  beam, 
not  an  herb  on  the  mountain,  not  a pebble  on  the  shore,  not 
a seed  far-blown  into  the  wilderness,  but  contributed  to  the 
lore  triat  sought  in  all  the  true  principle  of  life,  the  Beautiful, 
the  Joyous,  the  Immortal.  To  others,  a land,  a city,  a hearth, 
has  been  a home  ; my  home  has  been  wherever  the  intellect 
could  pierce,  or  the  spirit  could  breathe  the  air.^* 

He  paused,  and  through  the  immeasurable  space,  his  eyes 
and  his  heart,  penetrating  the  dismal  dungeon,  rested  on  his 
child.  He  saw  it  slumbering  in  the  arms  of  the  pale  mother, 
and  his  soul  spoke  to  the  sleeping  soul.  “ Forgive  me,  if  my 
desire  was  sin  ; I dreamed  to  have  reared  and  nurtured  thee 
to  the  divinest  destinies  my  visions  could  foresee.  Betimes, 
as  the  mortal  part  was  strengthened  against  disease,  to  have 
purified  the  spiritual  from  every  sin  ; to  have  led  thee,  heaven 
upon  heaven,  through  the  holy  ecstasies  which  make  up  the 
existence  of  the  orders  that  dwell  on  high  ; to  have  formed, 
from  thy  sublime  affections,  the  pure  and  ever-living  commu,- 
nication  between  thy  mother  and  myself.  The  dream  was 
but  a dream — it  is  no  more  ! In  sight  myself  of  the  grave,  I 
feel,  at  last,  that  through  the  portals  of  the  grave  lies  the  true 
initiation  into  the  holy  and  the  wise.  Beyond  those  portals  I 
await  ye  both,  beloved  pilgrims  ! ” 

From  his  numbers  and  his  Cabala,  in  his  cell,  amid  the 

* “ You  colonize  the  lands  of  the  savage  with  the  Anglo-Saxon— you  :ivilize  that 
portion  of  the  earth  ; but  is  the  savage  civilized  ? He  is  exterminated  . You  accu- 
mulate machinery— you  increase  the  total  of  wealth  : but  what  becomes  of  the  labor 
you  displace  ? One  generation  is  sacrificed  to  the  next.  You  diffuse  knowledge— 
and  the  world  seems  to  grow  brighter  ; but  Discontent  at  Poverty  replaces  Ignor- 
ance, happy  with  its  crust.  Evety  improvement,  every  advancement  in  civilization 
injures  some  to  benefit  others,  and  either  cherishes  the  want  of  to-day  or  preoar^f 
‘4ie  revplmiop  of  to-morrow.’ — Stephen  liJoNTAGUE.  ' 


ZANONI. 


367 


wrecks  of  Rome,  Mejnour,  startled,  looked  up,  and,  through 
the  spirit,  felt  that  the  spirit  of  his  distant  friend  addressed 
him. 

“ Fare  thee  well  forever  upon  this  earth  ! Thy  last  com- 
panion forsakes  thy  side.  Thine  age  survives  the  youth  ol 
all ; and  the  Final  Day  shall  find  thee  still  the  contemplatoi 
of  our  tombs.  I go  with  my  free  will  into  the  land  of  dark- 
ness ; but  new  suns  and  systems  blaze  around  us  from  the 
grave.  I go  where  the  souls  of  those  for  whom  I resign  the 
clay  shall  be  my  co-mates  through  eternal  youth.  At  last,  I 
recognize  the  true  ordeal  and  the  real  victory.  Mejnour,  cast 
down  thy  elixir ; lay  by  thy  load  of  years  ! Wherever  the 
soul  can  wander,  the  Eternal  Soul  of  all  things  protects  it 
still  1 ” 


CHAPTER  XV. 

Us  ne  veulent  plus  pordre  un  moment  d’une  nuit  si  pr^cieuse.* 

Lacretelle,  t m.  xiL 

It  was  late  that  night,  and  Rene-Frangois  Dumas,  President 
of  the  Revolutionary  Tribunal,  had  re-entered  his  cabinet,  on 
his  return  from  the  Jacobin  club.  With  him  were  two  men 
who  might  be  said  to  represent,  the  one  the  moral,  the  other 
the  physical  force  of  the  Reign  of  Terror  : Fouquier-Tinville, 
the  Public  Accuser,  and  Franqcis  Henriot,  the  General  of  the 
Parisian  National  Guard.  This  formidable  triumvirate  were 
assembled  to  debate  on  the  proceedings  of  the  next  day  ; and 
the  three  sister-witches,  over  their  hellish  caldron,  were 
scarcely  animated  by  a more  fiend-like  spirit,  or  engaged  in 
more  execrable  designs,  than  these  three  heroes  of  the  Rev- 
olution in  their  premeditated  massacre  of  the  morrow. 

Dumas  was  but  little  altered  in  appearence  since,  in  the 
earlier  part  of  this  narrative,  he  was  presented  to  the  reader, 
except  that  his  manner  was  somewhat  more  short  and  severe, 
and  his  eye  yet  more  restless.  But  he  seemed  almost  a 
superior  being  by  the  side  of  his  associates.  Rene-Dumas, 
born  of  respectable  parents,  and  well  educated,  despite  his 
. ferocity,  was  not  without  a certain  refinement,  which  perhaps 
rendered  him  the  more  acceptable  to  the  precise  and  formal 


* They  would  aot  lose  another  moment  of  so  pregious  a night. 


ZANOm. 


36S 

Robespierre.*  But  Henriot  had  been  a lackey,  a thief,  a spy 
of  the  police  ; he  had  drunk  the  blood  of  Madame  de  Lam* 
balle,  and  had  risen  to  his  present  rank  for  no  quality  but  his 
ruffianism  ; and  Fouquier-Tinville,  the  son  of  a provincial 
agriculturist,  arvd  afterward  a clerk  at  the  Bureau  of  the 
Police,  was  little  less  base  in  his  manners,  and  yet  more, 
from  a certain  loathsome  buffoonery,  revolting  in  his  speech ; 
bull-headed,  with  black,  sleek  hair,  with  a narrow  and  livid 
forehead,  with  small  eyes,  that  twinkled  with  a sinister 
malice  ; strong  and  coarsely  built,  he  looked  what  he  was,  the 
audacious  Bully  of  a lawless  and  relentless  Bar. 

Dumas  trimmed  the  candles,  and  bent  over  the  list  of  the 
victims  for  the  morrow. 

“ It  is  a long  catalogue,”  said  the  President ; “ eighty  trials 
for  one  day ! And  Robespierre’s  orders  to  dispatch  the 
whole  fournke  are  unequivocal.” 

“ Pooh  ! ” said  Fouquier,  with  a coarse,  loud  laugh  ; “ we 
must  try  them  en  masse.  I know  how  to  deal  with  our  jury. 

pense.,  Citoyens,  que  vous  ites  convaincus  du  crime  des 
accush  ? ’t  Ha  ! ha  ! — the  longer  the  list,  the  shorter  the 
work.” 

“ Oh,  yes,”  growled  out  Henriot,  with  an  oath, — as  usual, 
half  drunk,  and  lolling  on  his  chair,  with  his  spurred  heels  on 
the  table — “ little  Tinville  is  the  man  for  dispatch.” 

Citizen  Henriot,”  said  Dumas,  gravely,  “ permit  me  to  re- 
quest thee  to  select  another  footstool ; and  for  the  rest,  let  me 
warn  thee  that  to-morrow  is  a critical  and  important  day ; one 
that  will  decide  the  fate  of  France.” 

“ A fig  for  little  France  ! Vive  le  vertueux  Robespierre^  la 
Colonne  de  la  Republique  ! $ Plague  on  this  talking ; it  is  dry 
work.  Hast  thou  no  eau  de  vie  in  that  little  cupboard  ? ” 

Dumas  and  Fouquier  exchanged  looks  of  disgust.  Dumas 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  replied — 

“ It  is  to  guard  thee  against  eau  de  vie.,  Citizen  General 
Henriot,  that  I have  requested  thee  to  meet  me  here.  Listen 
if  thou  canst ! ” 

“ Oh,  talk  away  ! thy  metier  is  to  talk,  mine  to  fight  and  to 
drink.” 

“ To-morrow,  I tell  thee  then,  the  populace  will  be  abroad  ; 
all  factions  will  be  astir.  It  is  probable  enough  that  they  will 
even  seek  to  arrest  our  tumbrils  on  their  way  to  the  guillotine. 

* Dumas  was  a beau  in  his  way.  His  gala-dress  was  a blood-red  coat^  with  the 
finest  ruffles. 

+ 1 think,  citizens,  that  you  are  convinced  of  the  crime  of  the  accused. 

% Long  life  to  th?  virtuous  Robespierre— the  pillar  of  the  Republic. 


ZANONI. 


369 


Have  thy  men  armed  and  ready;  keep  the  streets  clear; 
cut  down  without  mercy  whomsoever  may  obstruct  the 
ways.” 

“I  understand,”  said  Henriot,  striking  his  sword  so  loudly 
that  Dumas  half-started  at  the  clank — “ Black  Henriot  is  no 
‘ Indulgent.'  ” 

“ Look  to  it,  then.  Citizen — look  to  it ! And  hark  thee,”  he 
added,  with  a grave  and  somber  brow,  “ if  thou  wouldst  keep 
thine  own  head  on  thy  shoulders,  beware  of  the  eau  de  vie." 

“ My  own  head  ! — sacre  mille  tonnerres  / Dost  thou  threaten 
the  General  of  the  Parisian  army } ” 

Dumas,  like  Robespierre,  a precise,  atrabilious,  and  arrogant 
man,  was  about  to  retort,  when  the  craftier  Tinville  laid  his 
hand  on  his  arm,  and,  turning  to  the  General,  said,  “ My  dear 
Henriot,  thy  dauntless  republicanism,  w'hich  is  too  ready  to 
give  offense,  must  learn  to  take  a reprimand  from  the  repre- 
sentative of  Republican  Law.  Seriously,  mon  cher.,  thou  must 
be  sober  for  the  next  three  or  four  days  ; after  the  crisis  is 
over,  thou  and  I will  drink  a bottle  together.  Come,  Dumas, 
relax  thine  austerity,  and  shake  hands  with  our  friend.  No 
quarrels  among  ourselves  ! ” 

Dumas  hesitated,  and  extended  his  hand,  which  the  ruffian 
clasped  ; and,  maudlin  tears  succeeding  his  ferocity,  he  half 
sobbed,  half  hiccupped  forth  his  protestations  of  civism  and 
his  promises  of  sobriety. 

“ Well,  we  depend  on  thee,  mon  General"  said  Dumas  : 
and  now,  since  we  shall  all  have  need  of  vigor  for  to-morrow, 
go  home  and  sleep  soundly.” 

“ Yes,  I forgive  thee,  Dumas — I forgive  thee.  I am  not 
vindictive — I ! but  still,  if  a man  threatens  me — if  a man  in- 
sults me  ” — And,  with  the  quick  changes  of  intoxication,  again 
his  eyes  gleamed  fire  through  their  foul  tears.  With  some 
difficulty  Fouquier  succeeded  at  last  in  soothing  the  brute,  and 
leading  him  from  the  chamber.  But  still,  as  some  wild  beast 
disappointed  of  a prey,  he  growled  and  snarled,  as  his  heavy 
tread  "descended  the  stairs.  A tall  trooper,  mounted,  was 
leading  Henriot’s  horse  to  and  fro  the  streets ; and  as  the 
General  waited  at  the  porch  till  his  attendant  turned,  a stran- 
ger stationed  by  the  wall  accosted  him — 

“ General  Henriot,  I have  desired  to  speak  with  thee.  Next 
to  Robespierre,  thou  art,  or  shouldst  be,  the  most  powerful 
man  in  France.” 

“ Hem  ! — yes,  I ought  to  be.  What  then  ? — every  man  has 
not  his  deserts  t 


370 


' ZANOm. 


“ Hist,”  said  the  stranger  ; “thy  pay  is  scarcely  suitable  ta 
thy  rank  and  thy  wants.” 

“ That  is  true.” 

“ Even  in  a revolution,  a man  takes  care  of  his  fortuties ! ” 
speak  out,  Citizen.” 

“ I have  a thousand  pieces  of  gold  with  me — they  are  thine, 
if  thou  wilt  grant  me  one  small  favor.” 

“ Citizen,  I grant  it ! ” said  Henriot,  waving  his  hand  ma- 
jestically. “ Is  it  to  denounce  some  rascal  who  has  offended 
thee  ? ” 

“ No  ; it  is  simply  this  : — write  these  words  to  President 
Dumas — ‘Admit  tha  bearer  to  thy  presence  ; and  if  thou 
can  St  grant  him  the  request  he  will  make  to  thee,  it  will  be  an 
inestimable  obligation  to  Franqois  Henriot.’  ” The  stranger, 
as  he  spoke,  placed  pencil  and  tablets  in  the  shaking  hands  of 
the  soldier. 

“ And  where  is  the  gold  ? ” 

“ Here.” 

With  some  difficulty,  Henriot  scrawled  the  words  dictated 
to  him,  clutched  the  gold,  mounted  his  horse,  and  was  gone. 

Meanwhile,  Fouquier,  when  he  had  closed  the  door  upon 
Henriot,  said  sharply — “ How  canst  thou  be  so  mad  as  to  in- 
cense that  brigand  ? Knowest  thou  not  that  our  laws  are 
nothing  without  the  physical  force  of  the  National  Guard,  and 
that  he  is  their  leader  ? ” 

“ I know  this,  that  Robespierre  must  have  been  mad  to 
place  that  drunkard  at  their  head  ; and  mark  my  words,  Fou- 
quier, if  the  struggle  come,  it  is  that  man’s  incapacity  and 
cowardice  that  will  destroy  us.  Yes,  thou  mayst  live  thyself 
to  accuse  thy  beloved  Robespierre,  and  to  perish  in  his 
fall.” 

“ For  all  that,  we  must  keep  well  with  Henriot  till  we  can 
find  the  occasion  to  seize  and  behead  him.  To  be  safe,  we 
must  fawn  on  those  who  are  still  in  power ; and  fawn  the  more, 
the  more  we  would  depose  them.  Do  not  think  this  Henriot, 
when  he  wakes  to-morrow,  will  forget  t^  threats.  He  is  the 
most  revengeful  of  human  beings.  Thou  must  send  and 
soothe  him  in  the  morning  ! ” 

“ Right,”  said  Dumas,  convinced.  “ I was  too  hasty ; and 
now  I think  we  have  nothing  further  to  do,  since  we  have  ar- 
ranged to  make  short  work  with  our  fourn&e  of  to-morrow.  I 
see  in  the  list  a knave  I have  long  marked  out,  though  his 
crime  once  procured  me  a legacy — Nicot,  the  Hebertist.” 

“ And  young  Andre  Chenier,  the  Poet.  Ah,  I forgot ; we 


ZANOm. 


371 


beheaded  him  to-day  ! Revolutionary  virtue  is  at  its  acme. 
His  own  brother  abandoned  him  ! ” * 

“ There  is  a foreigner — an  Italian  woman  in  the  list ; but 
I can  find  no  charge  made  out  against  her.” 

“ All  the  same  ; we  must  execute  her  for  the  sake  of  the 
round  number  ; eighty  sounds  better  than  seventy-nine  ! ” 

Here  a huissier  brought  a paper,  on  which  was  written 
the  request  of  Henriot. 

“ An ! this  is  fortunate,”  said  Tinville,  to  whom  Dumas 
chucked  the  scroll — “ grant  the  prayer  by  all  means ; so  at 
least  that  it  does  not  lessen  our  dead-roll;  But  I will  do 
Henriot  the  justice  to  say,  that  he  never  asks  to  let  off,  but  to 
put  on.  Good-night,  I am  worn-out.  My  escort  waits  below. 
Only  on  such  an  occasion  would  I venture  forth  in  the  streets 
at  night,”t  And  Fouquier,  with  a long  yawn,  quitted  the 
room. 

“ Admit  the  bearer ! ” said  Dumas,  who,  withered  and 
dried,  as  lawyers  in  practice  mostly  are,  seemed  to  require  as 
little  sleep  as  his  parchments. 

The  stranger  entered. 

“ Rene-Franqois  Dumas,”  said  he,  seating  himself  opposite 
to  the  President,  and  markedly  adopting  the  plural  as  if  in 
contempt  of  the  revolutionary  jargon  ; “ amid  the  excitement 
and  occupations  of  your  later  life,  I know  not  if  you  can 
remember  that  we  have  met  before  ? ” 

The  judge  scanned  the  features  of  his  visitor,  and  a pale 
blush  settled  on  his  sallow  cheeks — “ Yes,  Citizen,  I remem- 
ber ! ” 

“ And  you  recall  the  words  I then  uttered ! You  spoke 
tenderly  and  philant'hropically  of  your  horror  of  capital 
executions — you  exulted  in  the  approaching  revolution  as  the 
termination  of  all  sanguinary  punishments — you  quoted 
reverently  the  saying  of  Maximilien  Robespierre,  the  rising 
statesman,  ‘ the  executioner  is  the  invention  of  the  tyrant ; ' 
and  I replied  that  while  you  spoke,  a foreboding  seized  me 
that  we  should  meet  again  when  your  ideas  of  death  and  the 
philosophy  of  revolutions  might  be  changed ! Was  1 right, 

* His  brother  is  said,  indeed,  to  have  contributed  to  the  condemnation  of  this  vir~ 
tuous  and  illustrious  person.  He  was  heard  to  cry  aloud--‘‘  Si  mon  frere  est  coup- 
able,  qu’il  perisse.”  (If  my  brother  be  culpable,  let  him  die.)  This  brother,  Marie- 
Joseph,  also  a poet,  and  the  author  of  “ Charles  IX. ,”  so  celebrated  in  the  earlier 
days  of  the  Revoluton,  enjoyed,  of  course  according  to  the  wonted  justice  of  the 
world,  a triumphant  career  ; and  was  proclaimed  in  the  Champ  de  Mars,  “ le  premier 
des  poetes  Francais,”  a title  due  to  kis  murdered  brother. 

t During  the  latter  part  of  the  Reign  of  Terror,  Fouquier  rarely  stirred  out  at 
nighty  and  never  without  an  escort.  In  the  Reign  of  Teiror,  those  most  terrified 
were  its  kings. 


372 


ZANONL 


Citizen  Rene-Fran9ois  Dumas,  President  of  the  Revolutionarj 
Tribunal  ? ” 

“ Pooh ! ” said  Dumas,  with  some  confusion  on  his  brazen 
brow.  “ I spoke  then  as  men  speak  who  have  not  acted. 
Revolutions  are  not  made  with  rose-water  ! But  truce  to  the 
gossip  of  the  long-ago.  I remember  also  that  thou  didst  then 
save  the  life  of  my  relation,  and  it  will  please  thee  to  learn  that 
his  intended  murderer  wdll  be  guillotined  to-morrow.” 

“ That  concerns  yourself — your  justice  or  your  revenge. 
Permit  me  the  egotism  to  remind  you,  that  you  then  promised 
if  ever  a day  should  come  when  you  could  serve  me,  your  life 
— yes,  the  phrase  was  ‘ your  heart’s  blood  ’ — was  at  my 
bidding.  Think  not,  austere  judge,  that  I come  to  ask  a 
boon  that  can  affect  yourself — I come  but  to  ask  a day’s 
respite  for  another ! ” 

“ Citizen,  it  is  impossible  ! I have  the  order  of  Robes- 
pierre that  not  one  less  than  the  total  on  my  list  must 
undergo  their  trial  for  to-morrow.  As  for  the  verdict,  that 
rests  with  the  jury ! ” 

“ I do  not  ask  you  to  diminish  the  catalogue.  Listen  still ! 
In  your  death-roll  there  is  the  name  of  an  Italian  woman, 
whose  youth,  whose  beauty,  and  whose  freedom,  not  only 
from  every  crime,  but  every  tangible  charge,  will  excite  only 
compassion,  and  not  terror.  Even  you  would  tremble  to 
pronounce  her  sentence.  It  will  be  dangerous  on  a day  when 
the  populace  will  be  excited,  when  your  tumbrils  may  be 
arrested,  to  expose  youth  and  innocence  and  beauty  to  the 
pity  and  courage  of  a revolted  crowd.” 

Dumas  looked  up,  and  shrunk  from  the  eye  of  the  stranger. 

“ I do  not  deny.  Citizen,  that  there  is  reason  in  what  thou 
urgest.  But  my  orders  are  positive.” 

“ Positive  only  as  to  the  number  of  the  victims.  I offer 
you  a substitute  for  this  one.  I offer  you  the  head  of  a man 
who  knows  all  of  the  very  conspiracy  which  now  threatens 
Robespierre  and  yourself ; and  compared  with  one  clue  to 
which,  you  would  think  even  eighty  ordinary  lives  a cheap 
purchase.” 

That  alters  the  case,”  said  Dumas,  eagerly ; ‘‘if  thou  canst 
do  this,  on  my  own  responsibility  I will  postpone  the  trial  of 
the  Italian.  Now  name  the  proxy!” 

“ You  behold  him  ! ” 

“ Thou  1 ” exclaimed  Dumas,  while  a fear  he  could  not 
conceal  betrayed  itself  through  his  surprise.  “ Thou  I — and 
thou  comest  to  me  alone  at  night  to  offer  thyself  to  justice. 


A 


ZANOm, 


375 


Ha ! — this  is  a snare.  Tremble,  fool ! — thou  art  in  my 
power,  and  I can  have  both  ! ” 

“ You  can,”  said  the  stranger,  with  a calm  smile  of  disdain  ; 
“ but  my  life  is  valueless  without  my  revelations.  Sit  still,  I 
command  you — hear  me  ! ” and  the  light  in  those  dauntless 
eyes  spell-bound  and  awed  the  judge.  “ You  will  remove  me 
to  the  Concergierie — you  will  fix  my  trial,  under  the  name  of 
Zanoni,  amid  your  fournke  of  to-morrow.  If  I do  not  satisfy 
you  by  my  speech,  you  hold  the  woman  I die  to  save  as  your 
hostage.  It  is  but  the  reprieve  for  her  of  a single  day  that  I 
demand.  The  day  following  the  morrow,  I shall  be  dust,  and 
you  may  wreak  your  vengeance  on  the  life  that  remains 
Tush  ! Judge  and  condemner  of  thousands,  do  you  hesitate- 
do  you  imagine  that  the  man  who  voluntarily  offers  himsel 
to  death,  will  be  daunted  into  uttering  one  syllable  at  youv 
bar  against  his  will  ? Have  you  not  had  experience  enough 
of  the  inflexibility  of  pride  and  courage  } President,  I place 
before  you  the  ink  and  implements  ! Write  to  the  jailer  a 
reprieve  of  one  day  for  the  woman  w'hose  life  can  avail  you 
nothing,  and  I will  bear  the  order  to  my  ovm  prison — I,  who 
can  now  tell  this  much  as  an  earnest  of  what  I can  commu- 
• nicate — while  I speak,  your  own  name,  judge,  is  in  a list  of 
death.  I can  tell  you  by  whose  hand  it  is  written  down — I 
can  tell  you  in  what  quarter  to  look  for  danger — I can  tell 
you  from  what  cloud,  in  this  lurid  atmosphere,  hangs  the 
storm  that  shall  burst  on  Robespierre  and  his  reign  ! ” 

Dumas  grew  pale ; and  his  eyes  vainly  sought  to  escape 
the  magnetic  gaze  that  overpowered  and  mastered  him.  Me- 
chanicly,  and  as  if  under  an  agency  not  his  own,  he  wrote 
while  tire  stranger  dictated. 

“ Well,”  he  said,  then,  forcing  a smile  to  his  lips ; “ I prom- 
ised I would  serve  you ; see,  I am  faithful  to  my  word.  I 
suppose  that  you  are  one  of  those  fools  of  feeling — those  pro- 
fessors of  anti-revolutionary  virtue,  of  whom  I have  seen  not 
a few  before  my  bar.  Faugh  ! it  sickens  me  to  see  those 
who  make  a merit  of  incivism,  and  perish  to  save  some  bad 
patriot,  because  it  is  a son,  or  a father,  or  a wife,  or  a daugh- 
ter, who  is  saved.” 

“ I am  one  of  those  fools  of  feeling,”  said  the  stranger  ris- 
ing. ‘‘You  have  divined  aright.” 

“And  wilt  thou  not,  in  return  for  my  mercy,  utter  to-night 
the  revelations  thou  wouldst  proclaim  to-morrow Come ; 
and,  perhaps,  thou  too — nay,,  the  woman  also,  may  receive^ 
not  reprieve,  but  pardon.’’ 


374 


ZANOm. 


‘‘  Before  your  tribunal,  and  there  alone ! Nor  will  I de» 
ceive  you,  President.  My  information  may  avail  you  not ; 
and  even  while  I show  the  cloud,  the  bolt  may  fall.” 

“Tush! — Prophet,  look  to  thyself!  Go,  madman,  go.  I 
know,  too  well,  the  contumacious  obstinacy  of  the  class  to 
which  I suspect  thou  belongest,  to  waste  further  words. 
Diable  / but  ye  grow  so  accustomed  to  look  on  death  that  ye 
forget  the  respect  ye  owe  to  it.  Since  thou  offerest  me  thy 
head,  I accept  it.  To-morrow,  thou  mayst  repent ; it  will  be 
too  late.” 

“ Ay,  too  late.  President,”  echoed  the  calm  visitor. 

“ But,  remember,  it  is  not  pardon,  it  is  but  a day^s  re- 
prieve, I have  promised  to  this  woman.  According  as  thou 
dost  satisfy  me  to-morrow,  she  lives  or  dies.  I am  frank, 
Citizen  ; thy  ghost  shall  not  haunt  me  for  want  of  faith.” 

“ It  is  but  a day  that  I have  asked ; the  rest  I leave  to  jus- 
tice and  to  Heaven.  Your  huissiers  wait  below.” 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

Und  den  Mordstahl  seh’  ich  blinken ; 

Und  das  Morderauge  gluhn ! * 

Kassandra. 

Viola  was  in  the  prison,  that  opened  not  but  for  those  al- 
ready condemned  before  adjudged.  Since  her  exile  from 
Zanoni,  her  very  intellect  had  seemed  paralyzed.  All  that 
beautiful  exuberance  of  fancy,  which  if  not  the  fruit  of  ge- 
nius, seemed  its  blossoms  ; all  that  gush  of  exquisite  thought, 
which  Zanoni  had  justly  told  her  flowed  with  mysteries  and 
subtleties  ever  new  to  him,  the  wise  one ; all  were  gone,  anni- 
hilated ; the  blossom  withered,  the  fount  dried  up.  From 
something  almost  above  womanhood,  she  seemed  listlessly  to 
sink  into  something  below  childhood.  With  the  inspirer  the 
inspirations  had  ceased ; and,  in. deserting  love,  genius  also 
was  left  behind. 

She  scarcely  comprehended  why  she  had  been  thus  torn 
from  her  home  and  the  mechanism  of  her  dull  tasks.  She 
scarcely  knew  what  meant  those  kindly  groups,  that,  struck 
with  her  exceeding  loveliness,  had  gathered  round  her  in  the 
prison,  with  mournful  looks,  but  with  words  of  comfort.  She, 
who  had  hitherto  been  taught  to  abhor  those  whom  Law  con* 

♦And  I see  the  steel  of  Murder  glitter, 

And  the  eye  of  Murder 


ZAATOAT/. 


375 


demns  for  crime,  was  amazed  to  hear  that  beings  thus  com* 
passionate  and  tender,  with  cloudless  and  lofty  brows,  with 
gallant  and  gentle  mien,  were  criminals,  for  whom  Law  had  no 
punishment  short  of  death.  But  they,  the  savages,  gaunt  and 
menacing,  who  had  dragged  her  from  her  home,  who  had 
attempted  to  snatch  from  her  the  infant,  while  she  clasped  it 
in  her  arms,  and  laughed  fierce  scorn  at  her  mute  quivering 
lips — THEY  were  the  chosen  citizens,  the  men  of  virtue,  the 
favorites  of  Power,  the  ministers  of  Law ! Such  thy  black 
caprices,  O thou,  the  ever-shifting  and  calumnious, — Human 
Judgment ! 

A sqlialid,  and  yet  a gay  world,  did  the  prison-houses  of 
that  day  present.  There,  as  in  the  sepulcher  to  which  they 
led,  all  ranks  were  cast,  with  an  even-handed  scorn.  And  yet 
there,  the  reverence  that  comes  from  great  emotions  restored 
Nature’s  first  and  imperishable,  and  most  lovely,  and  most 
noble  Law — the  inequality  eetween  man  and  man  ! There, 
place  was  given  by  the  prisoners,  whether  royalist  or  sans- 
culottes^  to  Age,  to  Learning,  to  Renown,  to  Beauty ; and 
Strength,  with  its  own  inborn  chivalry,  raised  into  rank  the 
helpless  and  the  weak.  The  iron  sinews,  and  the  Herculean 
shoulders,  made  way  for  the  woman  and  the  child ; and  the 
graces  of  Humanity,  lost  elsewhere,  sought  their  refuge  in  the 
abode  of  Terror. 

“ And  wherefore,  my  child,  do  they  bring  thee  hither  ? ” 
asked  an  old  gray-haired  priest. 

“ I can  not  guess.” 

“ Ah  ! if  you  know  not  your  offense,  fear  the  worst.” 

“ And  my  child  ? ” (for  the  infant  was  still  suffered  to  rest 
upon  her  bosom.) 

“ Alas,  young  mother  ! they  will  suffer  thy  child  to  live.” 

“And  for  this — an  orphan  in  the  dungeon  ! ” murmured  the 
accusing  heart  of  Viola,  “ have  I reserved  his  offspring  ! Zanoni, 
even  in  thought,  ask  not — ask  not  what  I have  done  with  the 
child  I bore  thee  ! ” 

Night  came  ; the  crowd  rushed  to  the  grate,  to  hear  the 
muster-rollf.  Her  name  was  with  the  doomed.  And  the  old 
priest,  better  prepared  to  die,  but  reserved  from  the  death-list, 
laid  his  hands  on  her  head,  and  blessed  her  while  he  wept. 

She  heard,  and  wondered;  but  she  did  not  weep.  With 
downcast  eyes,  with  arms  folded  on  her  bosom,  she  bent  sub- 
missively to  the  call.  But  now,  another  name  was  uttered ; 
and  a man,  who  had  pushed  rudely  past  her,  to  gaz© 

+ Called  '!n  the  mocking’  jargon  of  the  day,  “the  Evening  Gazette/ 


376 


ZANONL 


listen,  shrieked  out  a howl  of  despair  and  rage.  She  turned, 
and  their  eyes  met.  Through  the  distance  of  time,  she  rec* 
ognized  that  hideous  aspect.  Nicot’s  face  settled  back  into  its 
devilish  sneer. 

“ At  least,  gentle  Neapolitan,  the  Guillotine  will  unite  us. 
Oh,  we  shall  sleep  well  our  wedding-night ! ” And,  with  a 
laugh,  he  strode  away  through  the  crowd,  and  vanished  into 
his  lair. 

^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 

tV  ^ W *7V  W ^ 

She  was  placed  in  her  gloomy  cell,  to  await  the  morrow. 
But  the  child  was  still  spared  her ; and  she  thought  it  seemed 
as  if  conscious  of  the  awful  Present.  In  their  way  to  the 
prison,  it  had  not  moaned  or  wept ; it  had  looked  with  its 
clear  eyes,  unshrinking,  on  the  gleaming  pikes  and  savage 
brows  of  the  huissiers.  And  now,  alone  in  the  dungeon,  it 
put  its  arms  round  her  neck,  and  murmured  its  indistinct 
sounds,  low  and  sweet  as  some  unknown  language  of  conso- 
lation and  of  heaven.  And  of  heaven  it  was  ! for,  at  the 
murmur,  the  terror  melted  from  her  soul  : upward,  from  the 
dungeon  and  the  death — upward,  where  the  happy  cherubim 
chant,  the  mercy  of  the  All-loving,  whispered  that  cherub’s 
voice.  She  fell  upon  her  knees  and  prayed.  The  despoilers 
of  all  that  beautifies  and  hallows  life  had  desecrated  the  alter, 
and  denied  the  God  ! — they  had  removed  from  the  last  hour 
of  their  victims  the  Priest,  the  Scripture,  and  the  Cross  ! But 
Faith  builds  in  the  dungeon  and  the  lazar-house  its  sublimest 
shrines  ; and  up,  through  roofs  of  stone,  that  shut  out  the  eye 
of  Heaven,  ascends  the  ladder  where  the  angels  glide  to  and 
fro — Prayer. 

And  there,  in  the  very  cell  beside  her  own  the  atheist  Nicot 
sits  stolid  amid  the  darkness,  and  hugs  the  thought  of  Danton, 
that  death  is  nothingness.*  His,  no  spectacle  of  an  appalled 
and  perturbed  conscience  ! Remorse  is  the  echo  of  a lost 
virtue,  and  virtue  he  never  knew.  Had  he  to  live  again,  he 
would  live  the  same.  But  more  terrible  than  the  death-bed 
of  a believing  and  despairing  sinner,  that  blank  gloom  of 
apathy — that  contemplation  of  the  worm  and  the  rat  of  the 
charnel-house — that  grim  and  loathsome  nothingness  which, 
for  his  eye,  falls  like  a pall  over  the  universe  of  life.  Still, 
staring  into  space,  gnawing  his  . livid  lip,  he  looks  upon  the 

darkness,  convinced  that  darkness  is  forever  and  forever  1 

******** 

* “ Ma  demeure  sera  bientot  la  neant”  (my  abode  will  soon  be  Nothingness) 
;aid  Danton  before  his  judges. 


3:an‘oni. 


377 


Place,  there  ! place ! Room  yet  in  your  crowded  cells. 
Another  has  come  to  the  slaughter-house. 

As  the  jailer,  lamp  in  hand,  ushered  in  the  stranger,  the 
latter  touched  him,  and  whispered.  The  stranger  drew  a jew- 
el from  his  finger.  Diantre,  how  the  diamond  flashed  in  the 
ray  of  the  lamp  ! Value  each  head  of  your  eighty  at  a thous- 
aiii  francs,  and  the  jewel  is  worth  more  than  all ! The  jail- 
er paused,  and  the  diamond  laughed  in  his  dazzled  eyes.  O 
thou  Cerberus,  thou  hast  mastered  all  else  that  seems  human 
in  that  fell  employ.  Thou  hast  no  pity,  no  love,  and  no  re- 
morse. But  Avarice  survives  the  rest,  and  the  foul  heart’s 
master-serpent  swallows  up  the  tribe.  Ha ! ha ! crafty  strang- 
er, thou  hast  conquered ! They  tread  the  gloomy  corridor ; 
they  arrive  at  the  door  where  the  jalier  has  placed  the  fatal 
mark,  now  to  be  erased,  for  the  prisoner  within  is  to  be  repriev- 
ed a day.  The  key  grates  in  the  lock — the  door  yawns — the 
stranger  takes  the  lamp  and  enters. 


CHAPTER  THE  SEVENTEENTH  AND  LAST. 

“ Cosi  vince  Goffredo ! ” f 

G^r.  Lib.  , cant.  xx.-xKv. 

And  Viola  was  in  prayer.  She  heard  not  the  opening  of 
the  door ; she  saw  not  the  dark  shadow  that  fell  along  the 
floor,  ^^s  power,  Ms  arts  were  gone ; but  the  mystery  and 
the  spell  known  to  Mr  simple  heart  did  not  desert  her  in  the 
hours  of  trial  and  despair.  When  Science  falls  as  a firework 
from  the  sky  it  would  invade,  when  Genius  withers  as  a flow- 
er in  the  breath  of  the  icy  charnel,  the  hope  of  a child-like 
soul  wraps  the  air  in  light,  and  the  innocence  of  unquestion- 
ing Belief  covers  the  grave  with  blossoms. 

In  the  farthest  corner  of  the  cell  she  knelt ; and  the  infant, 
as  if  to  imitate  what  it  could  not  comprehend,  bent  its  little 
limbs,  and  bowed  its  smiling  face,  and  knelt  with  her  also,  by 
her  side. 

He  stood,  and  gazed  upon  them  as  the  light  of  the  lamp 
fell  calmly  on  their  forms.  It  fell  over  those  clouds  of  gold- 
en hair,  dishevelled,  parted,  thrown  back  from  the  rapt,  can- 
did brow ; the  dark  eyes  raised  on  high,  where,  through  the 
human  tears,  a light  as  from  above  was  mirrored ; the  hands 


+ Thus  conquered  Godfrey. 


37« 


ZAmm 


clasped — the  Tips  apart — the  form  all  animate  and  holy  with 
the  sad  serenity  of  innocence  and  the  touching  humility  of 
woman.  And  he  heard  her  voice,  though  it  scarcely  left  her 
lips — the  low  voico  that  the  heart  speaks — loud  enough  for 
God  to  hear ! 

“And  if  never  more  to  see  him,  O Father!  const  Thou 
not  make  the  love  that  will  not  die  minister,  even  beyond  the 
grave,  to  his  earthly  fate  ? Canst  Thou  not  yet  permit  it,  as 
a living  spirit,  to  hover  over  him — a spirit  fairer  than  all  his 
science  can  conjure  ? Oh,  whatever  lot  be  ordained  to  either, 
grant — even  though  a thousand  ages  may  roll  between  us — 
grant,  when  at  last  purified  and  regenerate,  and  fitted  for  the 
transport  of  such  a re-union — ^grant,  that  we  may  meet  once 
more ! And  for  his  child — it  kneels  to  Thee  from  the  dun- 
geon floor ! To-morrow,  and  whose  breast  shall  cradle  it  I 
— whose  hand  shall  feed ! — whose  lips  shall  pray  for  its  weal 
below  and  its  soul  hereafter  1 ” She  paused — her  voice  chok- 
ed with  sobs. 

“ Thou,  Viola ! — thou,  thyself.  He  whom  thou  hast  desert- 
ed is  here  to  preserve  the  mother  to  the  child ! ” 

She  started ! — those  accents,  tremulous  as  her  own ! She 
started  to  her  feet ! — he  was  there, — in  all  the  pride  of  his  un- 
waning youth  and  superhuman  beauty ! there,  in  the  house  of 
dread,  and  in  the  hour  of  travail ! — there,  image  and  persona- 
tion of  the  love  that  can  pierce  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow,  and 
can  glide,  the  unscathed  wanderer  from  the  heaven,  through 
the  roaring  abyss  of  hell. 

With  a cry,  never,  perhaps,  heard  before  in  that  gloomy 
vault — a cry  of  delight  and  rapture,  she  sprung  forward,  and 
fell  at  his  feet. 

He  bent  down  to  raise  her ; but  she  slid  from  his  arms.  He 
called  her  by  the  familiar  epithets  of  the  old  endearment,  and 
she  only  answered  him  by  sobs.  Wildly,  passionately,  she 
kissed  his  hands,  the  hem  of  his  garment,  but  voice  was  gone. 

“ Look  up,  look  up  1 — I am  here — I am  here  to  save  thee  ! 
Wilt  thou  deny  to  me  thy  sweet  face  1 Truant,  wouldst  thou 
fly  me  still  ? ” 

“ Fly  thee  ! ” she  said,  at  last,  and  in  a broken  voice  ; “ oh, 
if  my  thoughts  wronged  thee — oh,  if  my  dream,  that  awful 
dream,  deceived — kneel  down  with  me,  and  pray  for  our 
child  ! Then,  springing  to  her  feet  with  a sudden  impulse, 
she  caught  up  the.  inf  ant,  and  placing  it  in  his  arms,  sobbed 
forth,  with  deprecating  and  humble  tones,  “ Not  for  my 
sake — not  for  mine,  did  I abandon  thee,  but ** 


ZANONI, 


379 


“ Hush  ! ” said  Zanoni ; “ I know  all  the  thoughts  that  thy 
confused  and  struggling  senses  can  scarcely  analyze  them- 
selves. And  see  how,  with  a look,  thy  child  answers  them  ! ’’ 

And  in  truth  the  face  of  that  strange  infant  seemed  radiant 
with  its  silent  and  unfathomable  joy.  It  seemed  as  if  it  recog- 
nized the  father ; it  clung — it  forced  itself  to  his  breast,  and 
there,  nestling,  turned  its  bright  clear  eyes  upon  Viola,  and 
smiled. 

“ Pray  for  my  child  ! ” said  Zanoni,  mournfully.  “ The 
thoughts  of  souls  that  would  aspire  as  mine,  are  all  prayer  ! 
And,  seating  himself  by  her  side,  he  began  to  reveal  to  her 
some  of  the  holier  secrets  of  his  lofty  being.  He  spoke  of  the 
sublime  and  intense  faith  from  which  alone  the  diviner  knowl- 
edge can  arise — the  faith  which,  seeing  the  immortal  every- 
wherd',  purifies  and  exalts  the  mortal  that  beholds — the  glori- 
ous ambition  that  dwells  not  in  the  cabals  and  crimes  of 
earth,  but  amid  those  solemn  wonders  that  speak  not  of 
men,  but  of  God, — of  that  power  to  abstract  the  soul  from  the 
clay  which  gives  to  the  eye  of  the  soul  its  subtle  vision,  and 
to  the  soul’s  wing  the  unlimited  realm — of  that  pure,  severe, 
and  daring  initiation,  from  which  the  mind  emerges,  as  from 
death,  into  clear  perceptions  of  its  kindred  with  the  Father- 
Principles  of  life  and  ’^ght,  so  that,  in  its  own  sense  of  the 
Beautiful,  it  finds  its  ioy ; in  the  serenity  of  its  will,  its  power  ; 
in  its  sympathy  with  the  youthfulness  of  the  Infinite  Creation, 
of  which  itself  is  an  essence  and  a part,  the  secrets  that  em- 
balm the  very  clay  which  they  consecrate,  and  renew  the 
strength  of  life  with  the  ambrosia  of  mysterious  and  celestial 
sleep.  And  while  he  spoke,  Viola  listened,  breathless.  If 
she  could  not  comprehend,  she  no  longer  dared  to  distrust. 
She  felt  that  in  that  enthusiasm,  self-deceiving  or  not,  no 
fiend  could  lurk ; and  by  an  intuition,  rather  than  an  effort 
of  the  reason,  she  saw  before  her,  like  a starry  ocean,  the 
depth  and  mysterious  beauty  of  the  soul  which  her  fears  had 
wronged.  Yet,  when  he  said  (concluding  his  strange  confes- 
sions), that  to  this  life  within  life  and  aboveX\i^  he  had  dream- 
ed to  raise  her  own,  the  fear  of  humanity  crept  over  her,  and 
he  read  in  her  silence  how  vain,  with  all  his  science,  would 
the  dream  have  been. 

But  now,  as  he  closed,  and,  leaning  on  his  breast,  she  felt 
the  clasp  of  his  protecting  arms, — when,  in  one  holy  kiss,  the 
past  was  forgiven  and  the  present  lost, — then  there  returned 
to  her  the  sweet  and  warm  hopes  of  the  natural  life — of  the 
loving  woman.  He  was  come  to  Ker  i She  asked  not 


380 


ZANONI. 


how — she  believed  it  without  a question.  They  should  be  at 
last  again  united.  They  would  fly  far  from  those  scenes  of 
violence  and  blood.  Their  happy  Ionian  isle,  their  fearless  sol- 
itudes, would  once  more  receive  them.  She  laughed,  with  a 
child’s  joy,  as  this  picture  rose  up  amid  the  gloom  of  the 
dungeon!  Her  mind,  faithful  to  its  sweet,  simple  instincts, 
refused  to  receive  the  lofty  images  that  flitted  confusedly  by 
it,  and  settled  back  to  its  human  visions,  yet  more  baseless,  of 
the  earthly  happiness  and  the  tranquil  home. 

“ Talk  not  now  to  me,  beloved — talk  not  more  now  to  me ’of 
the  past ! Thou  art  here — thou  wilt  save  me  : we  shall  live 
yet  the  common  happy  life  ; that  life  with  thee  is  happiness 
and  glory  enough  to  me.  Traverse,  if  thou  wilt,  in  thy  pride 
of  soul,  the  universe ; thy  heart  again  is  the  universe  to  mine. 
I thought  but  now  that  I was  prepared  to  die ; I see  thee^ 
touch  thee,  and  again  I know  how  beautiful  a thing  is  life. 
See,  through  the  grate  the  stars  are  fading  from  the  sky ; the 
morrow  will  soon  be  here — the  morrow  which  will  open  the 
prison-doors ! Thou  sayest  thou  canst  save  me — I will  not 
doubt  it  now.  Oh,  let  us  dwell  no  more  in  cities  I I never 
doubted  there  in  our  lovely  isle  ; no  dreams  haunted  me  there, 
except  dreams  of  joy  and  beauty ; and  thine  eyes  made  yet 
more  beautiful  and  joyous  the  worM  in  waking.  To-morrow ! 
— why  do  you  not  smile  ? To-morrow,  love  I is  not  to-morrow 
a blessed  word  I Cruel ! you  would  punish  me  still,  that  you 
will  not  share  my  joy.  Aha ! see  our  little  one,  how  it  laughs 
to  my  eyes  ! I will  talk  to  that.  Child,  thy  father  is  come 
back ! ” 

And  taking  the  infant  in  her  arms,  and  seating  herself  at  a 
little  distance,  she  rocked  it  to  and  fro  on  her  bosom,  and 
prattled  to  it,  and  kissed  it  between  every  word ; and  laughed 
and  wept  by  fits,  as  ever  and  anon  she  cast  over  her  shoulder 
her  playful,  mirthful  glance,  upon  the  father  to  whom  those 
fading  stars  smiled  sadly  their  last  farewell.  How  beautiful 
she  seemed  as  she  thus  sat,  unconscious  of  the  future  ! Still 
half  a child  herself,  her  child  laughing  to  her  laughter — two 
soft  triflers  on  the  brink  of  the  grave ! Over  her  throat,  as 
she  bent,  fell,  like  a golden  cloud,  her  redundant  hair ; it  cov- 
ered her  treasure  like  a veil  of  light ; and  the  child’s  little 
hands  put  it  aside  from  time  to  time,  to  smile  through  the 
parted  tresses,  and  then  to  cover  its  face  and  peep  and  smile 
again.  It  were  cruel  to  damp  that  joy,  more  cruel  still  to 
share  it. 

“ Viola,”  said  Zanoni,  at  last,  “ dost  thou  remember  that, 


ZANONL 


seated  by  the  cave  on  the  moonlit  beach,  in  our  bridal  isle, 
thou  once  didst  ask  me  for  this  amulet? — the  charm  of  a 
superstition  long  vanished  from  the  world,  with  the  creed  to 
which  it  belonged.  It  is  the  last  relic  of  my  native  land,  and 
my  mother,  on  her  death-bed,  placed  it  round  my  neck.  I 
told  thee  then  I would  give  it  thee  on  that  day  when  the  laws 
of  our  being  should  become  the  sameJ' 

“ I remember  it  well.” 

“ To-morrow  it  shall  be  thine  ! ” 

“ Ah,  that  dear  to-morrow ! ” And,  gently  laying  down  her 
child, — for  it  slept  now, — she  threw  herself  on  his  breast,  and 
pointed  to  the  dawn  that  began  grayly  to  creep  along  the  skies. 

There,  in  those  horror-breathing  walls,  the  day-star  looked 
through  the  dismal  bars  upon  those  three  beings,  in  whom 
were  concentered  whatever  is  most  tender  in  human  ties;  what- 
ever is  most  mysterious  in  the  combinations  of  the  human 
mind  ; the  sleeping  Innocence  ; the  trustful  Affection,  that, 
contented  with  a touch,  a breath,  can  foresee  no  sorrow ; the 
weary  Science  that,  traversing  all  the  secrets  of  creation,  comes 
at  last  to  Death  for  their  solution,  and  still  clings,  as  it  nears 
the  threshold,  to  the  breast  of  Love.  Thus,  within,  the  within 
- — a dungeon,  without,  the  without — stately  with  marts  and 
halls,  with  palaces  and  temples — Revenge  and  Terror,  at  their 
dark  schemes  and  counter-schemes — to  and  fro,  upon  the  tide 
of  the  shifting  passions,  reeled  the  destinies  of  men  and 
nations ; and  hard  at  hand  that  day-star,  waning  into  space, 
looked  with  impartial  eye  on  the  church  tower  and  the  guillo- 
tine Up  springs  the  blithesome  morn.  In  yon  gardens  the 
birds  renew  their  familiar  song.  The  ’ fishes  are  sporting 
through  the  freshening  waters  of  the  Seine.  The  gladness  of 
divine  nature,  the  roar  and  dissonance  of  mortal  life,  awake 
again  ; the  trader  unbars  his  windows — the  flower-girls  troop 
gayly  to  their  haunts — busy  feet  are  tramping  to  the  daily 
drudgeries  that  revolutions  which  strike  down  kings  and 
kaisars,  leave  the  same  Cain’s  heritage  to  the  boor — the 
wagons  groan  and  reel  to  the  mart — Tyranny,  up  betimes, 
holds  its  pallid  levee — Conspiracy,  that  hath  not  slept,  hears  the 
clock,  and  whispers  to  its  own  heart,  “ The  hour  draws  near.” 

A group  gather,  eager-eyed,  round  the  purlieus  of  the  Con- 
vention Hall ; to-day  decides  the  sovereignty  of  France — about 
the  courts  of  the  Tribunal  their  customary  hum  and  stir.  No 
matter  what  the  hazard  of  the  die,  or  who  the  ruler,  this  day 
eighty  heads  shall  fall ! 


3S2 


ZANOm. 


And  she  slept  so  sweetly  ! Wearied  out  with  joy,  secure  in 
the  presence  of  the  eyes  regained,  she  had  laughed  and  wept 
herself  to  sleep ; and  still,  in  that  slumber,  there  seemed  a 
happy  consciousness  that  the  Loved  was  by — the  Lost  was 
found  For  she  smiled  and  murmured  to  herself,  and  breathed 
his  name  often,  and  stretched  out  her  arms,  and  sighed  if  they 
touched  him  not.  He  gazed  upon  her  as  he  stood  apart — with 
what  emotions  it  were  vain  to  say.  She  would  wake  no  more 
to  him — she  could  not  know  how  dearly  the  safety  of  that  sleep 
was  purchased.  That  morrow  she  had  so  yearned  for, — it  had 
come  at  last.  How  would  she  greet  the  eve  ? Amid  all  the 
exquisite  hopes  with  which  love  and  youth  contemplate  the 
future  her  eyes  had  closed.  Those  hopes  still  lent  their  iris^ 
colors  to  her  dreams.  She  would  wake  to  live  ! To-morrow, 
and  the  Reign  of  Terror  was  no  more — the  prison  gates  would 
be  opened — she  would  go  forth,  with  her  child,  into  that  sum- 
mer-world of  light.  And  he  ? — he  turned,  and  his  eye  fell  upon 
the  child  ; it  was  broad  awake,  and  that  clear,  serious,  thought- 
ful look  which  it  mostly  wore,  watched  him  with  a solemn 
steadiness.  He  bent  over  and  kissed  its  lips. 

“ Never  more,”  he  murmured,  “ O heritor  of  love  and 
grief — never  more  wilt  thou  see  itie  in  thy  visions — never 
more  will  the  light  of  those  eyes  be  fed  by  celestial  commune 
— never  more  can  my  soul  guard  from  thy  pillow  the  trouble 
and  the  disease.  Not  such  as  I would  have  vainly  shaped 
it,  must  be  thy  lot.  In  common  with  thy  race,  it  must  be 
thine  to  suffer,  to  struggle,  and  to  err.  But  mild  be  thy 
human  trials,  and  strong  be  thy  spirit,  to  love  and  to  believe  ! 
And  thus,  as  I gaze  upon  thee — thus  may  my  nature  breathe 
into  thine  its  last  and  most  intense  desire ; may  my  love  for 
thy  mother  pass  to  thee,  and  in  thy  looks  may  she  hear  my 
spirit  comfort  and  console  her.  Hark  ! they  come ! — Yes  ! I 
await  ye  both  beyond  the  grave ! ” 

The  door  slowly  opened  ; the  jailer  appeared,  and  through 
the  aperture  rushed,  at  the  same  instant,  a ray  of  sun-light — 
it  streamed  over  the  fair,  hushed  face  of  the  happy  sleeper — it 
played  like  a smile  upon  the  lips  of  the  child,  that  still,  mute 
and  steadfast,  watched  the  movements  of  its  father.  At  that 
moment  Viola  muttered  in  her  sleep — “ The  day  is  come- — 
the  gates  are  open  ! Give  me  thy  hand  ; we  will  go  forth  ! 
To  sea — to  sea  ! — How  the  sunshine  plays  upon  the  waters! 
— to  home,  beloved  one  ! to  home  again.  ” 

“ Citizen,  thine  hour  is  come  ! ” 

“ Hist ! — she  sleeps  ! A ^moment ! There  ! it  is  donf  t 


ZANOm. 


383 


thank  Heaven  ! — and  still  she  sleeps  ! ” He  would  not  kiss, 
lest  he  should  awaken  her,  but  gently  placed  round  her  neck 
the  amulet  that  would  speak  to  her,  hereafter,  the  farewell ; — 
and  promise,  in  that  farewell — reunion  ! He  is  at  the  threshold 
— he  turns  again,  and  again.  The  door  closes  ! He  is  gone 
forever ! 

She  awoke  at  last — she  gazed  round.  “ Zanoni,  it  is  day  ! ” 
No  answer  but  the  low  wail  of  her  child.  Merciful  heaven  ! 
was  it  then  all  a dream ! She  tossed  back  the  long  tresses 
that  must  veil  her  sight — she  felt  the  amulet  on  her  bosom — it 
was  no  dream  ! “ Oh,  God ! and  he  is  gone  ! ” She  sprung 

to  the  door — she  shrieked  aloud.  The  jailer  comes.  “ My 
husband,  my  child’s  father  ? ” 

“ He  is  gone  before  thee,  woman  ! ” 

‘‘  Whither  ? Speak — speak  ! ” 

“ To  the  guillotine  ! ” — and  the  black  door  closed  again. 

It  closed  upon  the  Senseless  ! As  a lightning-flash,  Zanoni’s 
words,  his  sadness,  the  true  meaning  of  his  mystic  gift,  the 
very  sacrifice  he  made  for  her,  all  became  distinct  for  a mo- 
ment to  her  mind — and  then  darkness  swept  on  it  like  a storm, 
yet  darkness  which  had  its  light.  And,  while  she  sat  there, 
mute,  rigid,  voiceless,  as  congealed  to  stone,  a vision,  like  a 
wind,  glided  over  the  deeps  within ! — the  grim  court — the 
judge — the  jury — the  accuser  ; and  amid  the  victims  the  one 
dauntless  and  radiant  form. 

“ Thou  knowest  the  danger  to  the  State — confess  ! ” 

“I  know;  and  I keep  my  promise.  Judge,  I reveal  thy 
doom ! I know  that  the  Anarchy  thou  callest  a State  expires 
with  the  setting  of  this  sun.  Hark  ! to  the  tramp  without ! — 
hark ! to  the  roar  of  voices  ! Room  there,  ye  Dead  ! — room 
in  hell  for  Robespierre  and  his  crew  ! ” 

They  hurry  into  the  court — the  hasty  and  pale  messengers 
— there  is  confusion,  and  fear  and  dismay!  “Off  with  the 
- conspirator  and  to-morrow  the  woman  thou  wouldst  have 
saved  shall  die  ! ” 

“ To-morrow,  President,  the  steel  falls  on  thee  I ” 

On,  through  the  crowded  and  roaring  streets,  on  moves  the 
Procession  of  Death.  Ha,  brave  people  1 thou  art  aroused 
at  last.  They  shall  not  die  ! — Death  is  dethroned  I — Robes- 
pierre has  fallen  ! — they  rush  to  the  rescue  ! Hideous  in  the 
tumbril,  by  the  side  of  Zanoni,  raved  and  gesticulated  that 
form  which,  in  his  prophetic  dreams,  he  had  seen  his  com- 
panion at  the  place  of  death. 

“ Save  us — save  us  ! ” howled  the  atheist  Nicot ! “ On  brave 


3^4 


ZAivom. 


populace  ! we  shall  be  saved  ! ” And  through  the  crowd,  her 
dark  hair  streaming  wild,  her  eyes  flashing  fire,  presses  a 
female  form — “ My  Clarence  ! ” she  shrieked,  in  the  soft  south- 
ern language,  native  to  the  ears  of  Viola ; “ butcher ! what 
hast  thou  done  with  Clarence  ! ” Her  eyes  roved  over  the 
eager  faces  of  the  prisoners ; she  saw  not  the  one  she  sought. 
“ Thank  Heaven  ! — thank  Heaven ! I am  not  thy  murder- 
ess ! ” 

Nearer  and  nearer  press  the  populace — another  moment 
and  the  deathsman  is  defrauded.  O Zanoni ! why  still  upon 
thy  brow  the  resignation  that  speaks  no  hope.?  Tramp! 
tramp  ! through  the  streets,  dash  the  armed  troop : faithful  to 
his  orders.  Black  Henriot  leads  them  on.  Tramp  ! tramp  ! 
over  the  craven  and  scattered  crowd  I Here,  flying  in  disor- 
der— there,  trampled  in  the  mire,  the  shrieking  rescuers  ! 
And  amid  them,  stricken  by  the  sabers  of  the  guard,  her 
long  hair  blood-bedabbled,  lies  the  Italian  woman  ; and  still 
upon  her  writhing  lips  sits  joy,  as  they  murmur — “ Clarence  1 
I have  not  destroyed  thee  1 ” 

On  to  the  Barriers  du  Trbne.  It  frowns  dark  in  the  air — 
the  giant  instrument  of  murder  ! One  after  one  to  the  glaive ; 
—another,  and  another,  an(T  another  ! Mercy  1 O mercy  ! 
Is  the  bridge  between  the  sun  and  the  shades  so  brief  ? — 
brief  as  a sigh  ? There,  there — turn  has  come.  “ Die  not 
yet ; leave  me  not  behind ; hear  me — hear  me  ! ” shrieked  the 
inspired  sleeper.  “ What ! and  thou  smilest  still  I ” They 
smiled — those  pale  lips — and  with  the  smile,  the  place  of 
doom,  the  headsman,  the  horror  vanished  ! With  that  smile, 
all  space  seemed  suffused  in  eternal  sunshine.  Up  from  the 
earth  he  rose — he  hovered  over  her — a thing  not  of  matter — 
an  IDEA  of  joy  and  light ! Behind,  Heaven  opened,  deep 
after  deep ; and  the  Hosts  of  Beauty  were  seen,  rank  upon 
rank  afar ; and  “ Welcome  ! ” in  a myriad  melodies,  broke 
from  your  choral  multitude,  ye  People  of  the  Skies — “ Wel- 
come ! O purified  by  sacrifice,  and  immortal  only  through 
the  grave — this  it  is  to  die.”  And  radiant  amid  the  radiant,  the 
IMAGE  stretched  forth  its  arms,  and  murmured  to  the  sleeper : 
‘ Companion  of  Eternity  I — this  it  is  to  die  1 ” 

*-ii,  ^ 

^ TV  ^ ^ ^ 

“ Ho ! wherefore  do  they  make  us  signs  from  the  house- 
tops ? Wherefore  gather  the  crowds  through  the  street  ? 
Why  sounds  the  bell  ? Why  shrieks  the  tocpin  ? Hark  to 
the  guns! — the  armed  clash  I Fellow-captives,  is  there  hope 
for  us  at  last  ? ” 


ZANOm. 


385 


So  gasp  out  the  prisoners,  each  to  each.  Day  wanes— 
evening  closes  ; still  they  press  their  white  faces  to  the  bars ; 
and  still  from  window  and  from  house-top,  they  see  the  smiles 
of  friends — the  waving  signals  ! “ Hurrah  ! ” at  last — “ Hup 

rah  ! Robespierre  is  fallen  ! The  Reign  of  Terror  is  no 
more  ! God  hath  permitted  us  to  live ! ” 

Yes  ; cast  thine  eyes  into  the  hall,  where  the  tyrant  and 
his  conclave  hearkened  to  the  roar  without ! — Fulfilling  tljie 
"^^rophecy  of  Dumas,  Henriot,  drunk  with  blood  and  alcohol, 
/eels  within,  and  chucks  his  gory  saber  on  the  floor.  “ Al) 
is  lost ! ” 

“ Wretch ! thy  cowardice  hath  destroyed  us ! ” yelled  the 
fierce  Coffinhal,  as  he  hurled  the  coward  from  the  window. 

Calm  as  despair  stands  the  stern  St.  Just ; the  palsied 
Couthon  crawls,  groveling,  beneath  the  table  ; a shot — an  ex> 
plosion  ! Robespierre  would  destroy  himself ! the  trembling 
hand  has  mangled,  and  failed  to  kill ! The  clock  of  the 
Hotel  de  Ville  strikes  the  third  hour.  Through  the  battered 
door — along  the  gloomy  passages,  into  the  Death-hall,  burst 
the  crowd.  Mangled,  livid,  blood-stained,  speechless,  but 
not  unconscious,  sits,  haughty  yet,  in  his  seat  erect,  the  Mas- 
ter-Murderer! Around  him  they  throng — they  hoot — they 
execrate  ! their  faces  gleaming  in  the  tossing  torches  ! He, 
and  not  the  starry  Magian,  the  real  Sorcerer  ! And  round 
his  last  hours  gather  the  Fiends  he  raised  ! 

They  drag  him  forth  ! Open  thy  gates,  inexorable  prison ! 
The  Conciergerie  receives  its  prey  ! Never  a word  again  on 
earth  ^oke  Maximilien  Robespierre ! Pour  forth  thy  thou- 
sands, and  tens  of  thousands,  emancipated  Paris ! To  the 
Place  de  la  Revolution,  rolls  the  tumbril  of  the  King  of  Terroi* — 
St.  Just,  Dumas,  Couthon — his  companions  to  the  grave  ! 
A woman — a childless  woman,  with  hoary  hair,  springs  to  his 
side — “ Thy  death  makes  me  drunk  with  joy  ! ” He  opened 
his  bloodshot  eyes- — “ Descend  to  hell,  with  the  curses  of 
wives  and  mothers  ! ” 

The  headsmen  wrench  the  rag  from  the  shattered  jaw ! a 
"hriek,  and  the  crowd  laugh,  and  the  axe  descends  amid  the 
hout  of  the  countless  thousands.  And  blackness  rushes  on 
chy  soul,  Maximilien  Robespierre  ! So  ended  the  Reign  of 
Terror. 

******** 

Daylight  in  the  prison.  From  cell  to  cell  they  hurry  with 
the  news  ; crowd  upon  crowd  ; — the  joyous  captives  mingled 
with  the  very  jailers,  who,  for  fear,  would  fain  seem 

25 


386 


ZANONT. 


too — they  stream  through  the  dens  and  alleys  of  the  giara 
house  they  will  shortly  leave.  They  burst  into  a cell,  forgotten 
since  the  previous  morning.  They  found  there  a young  feraalCj 
sitting  upon  her  wretched  bed  ; her  arms  crossea  upon  her  bo- 
som, her  face  raised  upward  ; the  eyes  unclosed,  and  a smile, 
of  more  than  serenity — of  bliss  upon  her  lips.  Even  in  the 
riot  of  their  joy,  they  drew  back  in  astonishment  and  awe 
Never  had  they  seen  life  so  beautiful ; and,  as  they  crept 
nearer,  and  with  noiseless  feet,  they  saw  that  the  lips  breath- 
ed not,  that  the  repose  was  of  marble,  that  the  beauty  and 
the  ecstasy  were  of  death.  They  gathered  round  in  silence  ; 
and  lo  ! at  her  feet  there  was  a young  infant,  who,  wakened 
by  their  tread,  looked  at  them  steadfastly,  and  with  its  rosy 
fingers  played  with  its  dead  mother’s  robe.  An  orphan  there 
• in  the  dungeon  vault ! “ Poor  one  ! ” said  the  female  (herself 
a parent) — “ and  they  say  the  father  fell  yesterday  ; and  now 
the  mother  ! Alone  in  the  world,  what  can  be  its  fate  ? ” 

The  infant  smiled  fearlessly  on  the  crowd,  as  the  woman 
spoke  thus.  And  the  old  Priest,  who  stood  among  them, 
said,  gently,  “ Woman,  see  ! the  orphan  smiles  ! Thf  Fath-* 
ERLSSS  ARE  THE  CARE  OF  GOD  ! ” 


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.'«j T*’.-*". ‘Si 


